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Turrets, Towers, and Temples 



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Turrets, 
Towers, and Temples 

The Great Buildings of the World, as 
Seen and Described by Famous Writers 

EDITED AND TRANSLATED 

By ESTHER SINGLETON 

TRANSLATOR OF "THE MUSIC DRAMAS OF RICHARD WAGNER ■" 

With Numerous Illustrations 



NEW YORK 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
: . i8g8- 



G^, 



Copyright, 1898, 
By Dodd, Mead and Company. 



i-iyiZ2 




Wj wOKlES RtCEIVEO^ 



b io Q ^"1^ 



SEntbcrsttg Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 



ftiitf COPY, 
1898. 



Preface 

N making the selections for this book, which is 
thought to be the realization of a new idea, it 
has been my endeavour to bring together descrip- 
tions of several famous buildings written by authors 
who have appreciated the romantic spirit, as well as 
the architectural beauty and grandeur, of the work 
they describe. ^ . 

It would be impossible to collect within the small 
boundaries of a single volume sketches and pic- 
tures of all the masterpieces of architecture, and a 
vast amount of interesting literature has had to be 
ignored. I have tried, however, to gather choice 
examples of as many different styles .ef architecture 
as possible and to give a description, wherever 
practicable, of each building's special object of 
veneration, such as the Christ of Burgos and the 
Cid's coffer in the same Cathedral ; the Emerald 
Buddha at Wat Phra Kao, Bangkok ; the statue 
of Our Lady at Toledo ; the shrine of St. Thomas 
a Becket at Canterbury ; etc., as well as the special 



-^t 



VI PREFACE 

feature for which any particular building is famous, 
such as the Court of Lions in the Alhambra ; the 
Chapel of Henry VII. in Westminster Abbey ; 
the Convent of the Escurial ; the spiral stairway at 
Chambord ; etc., and also a typical scene, like the 
dance de los seises in the Cathedral of Seville ; and 
the celebration of Easter at St. Peter's. 

Ruskin says : " It is well to have not only what 
men have thought and felt, but what their hands 
have handled and their strength wrought all the 
days of their life." It is also well to have what 
sympathetic authors have written about these mas- 
sive and wonderful creations of stone which have 
looked down upon and outlived so many genera- 
tions of mankind. 

With the exception of the Mosque of Santa Sofia, 
all the translations have been made expressly for 
this book. 

E. S. 

New York, Maj, i8g8. 



Contents 



St. Mark's, Venice i 

John Ruskin. 

-^The Tower of London ii 

William Hepworth Dixon. 

The Cathedral of Antwerp i8 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

-^The Taj Mahal, Agra 23 

Andre Chevrillon. 

.^The Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Paris 28 

Victor Hugo. 

/:='The Kremlin, Moscow 38 

Theophile Gautier. 

The Cathedral of York 40 

Thomas Frognall Dibdin. 

The Mosque of Omar, Jerusalem 56 

Pierre Lotl 

The Cathedral of Burgos 65 

Theophile Gautier. 

The Pyramids, Gizeh 71 

Georg Ebers. 

^ St. Peter's, Rome 76 

Charles Dickens. 



viii CONTENTS 

The Cathedral of Strasburg 84 

Victor Hugo. 

The Shway Dagohn Rangoon 92 

GwENDOLiN Trench Gascoigne. 

The Cathedral of Siena 98 

John Addington Symonds. 

The Town Hall of Louvain 102 

Grant Allen. 

The Cathedral of Seville 105 

Edmondo De Amicis. 

Windsor Castle no 

William Hepworth Dixon. 

The Cathedral of Cologne 117 

Ernest Breton. 

The Palace of Versailles 126 

Augustus J. C. Hare. 

The Cathedral of Lincoln 132 

Thomas Frognall Dibdin. 

The Temple of Karnak 137 

Amelia B. Edwards. 

Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence 143 

Charles Yriarte. 

Giotto's Campanile, Florence . . 147 

I. Mrs. Oliphant. 
II. John Ruskin. 

The House of Jacques Cceur, Bruges 152 

Ad. Berty. 

Wat Phra Kao, Bangkok 158 

Carl Bock. 



CONTENTS IX 

The Cathedral of Toledo 163 

Th^ophile Gautier. 

The Chateau de Chambord 170 

Jules Loiseleur. 

The Temples of Nikko 177 

Pierre Loti. 



The Palace of Holyrood, Edinburgh 187 

David Masson. 

Saint- GuDULE, Brussels 193 

Victor Hugo. 

The Escurial, Madrid 195 

Edmondo De Amicis. 

The Temple of Madura 204 

James Fergusson. 

•7 The Cathedral of Milan 209 

Th^iophile Gautier. 

The Mosque of Hassan, Cairo 215 

Amelia B. Edwards. 

The Cathedral of Treves 221 

Edward Augustus Freeman. 

The Vatican, Rome 225 

Augustus J. C. Hare. 

The Cathedral of Amiens 234 

John Ruskin. 

^The Mosque of Santa Sofia, Constantinople . . . 242 
Edmondo De Amicis. 

Westminster Abbey, London 248 

Arthur Penrhyn Stanley. 

■7 The PARTHENON) Athens 257 

John Addington Symonds. 



X CONTENTS 

The Cathedral of Rouen 263 

Thomas Frognall Dibdin. 

The Castle of Heidelberg 269 

Victor Hugo. 

The Ducal Palace, Venice 278 

John Ruskin. 

The Mosque of Cordova 286 

Edmondo De Amicis. 

The Cathedral of Throndtjem 293 

Augustus J. C. Hare. 

-^ The Leaning Tower of Pisa . 298 

Charles Dickens. 

The Cathedral of Canterbury 301 

W. H. Fremantle. 

^ The Alhambra, Granada 308 

Theophile Gautier. 



Illustrations 



St. Mark's ' 

The Tower of London . 
The Cathedral of Antwerp 
The Taj Mahal .... 
The Cathedral of Notre Da 

The Kremlin 

The Cathedral of York . 
The Mosque of Otviar . 
The Cathedral of Burgos 

The Pyramids 

St. Peter's 

The Cathedral of Strasburg 
The Shway Dagohn . 
The Cathedral of Siena 
The Town Hall of Louvain 
The Cathedral of Seville . 
Windsor Castle .... 
The Cathedral of Cologne 
The Palace of Versailles . 
The Cathedral of Lincoln 
The Temple of Karnak 
Santa Maria del Fiore . 
Giotto's Campanile . 
The House of Jacques Cceur 
Wat Phra Kao .... 
The Cathedral of Toledo 
The ChAteau de Chambord 





PAGE 


Italy . . 


Frontis. 


England 


Face 14 


Belgium 


" 20 


India 


" 23 


France . 


" 30 


Russia . 


" 40 


England 


" 49 


Palestine 


" S8 


Spain 


" 65 


Egypt . . 


" 72 


Italy . . . 


" 78 


Germany 


" 86 


Eurmah 


" 94 


Italy . . . 


" 98 


Belgium 


" 103 


Spain 


" 106 


England 


"no 


Germany 


" 121 


France . 


" 126 


England ' . 


" 132 


Egypt . . 


" 139 


Italy . . . 


" 144 


Italy . . . 


" 147 


Belgium 


" 155 


Siam 


" 159 


Spain 


" 164 


France . 


" 172 



xu 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



The Temples of Nikko . 
The Palace of Holyrood 
Saint-Gudule .... 
The Escurial .... 
The Temple of M.adura 
The Cathedral of Milan 
The Mosoue of Hassan . 
The Cathedral of Treves 
The Vatican .... 
The Cathedral of Amiens 
The Mosque of Santa Sofia . 
Westminster Abbey .... 

The Parthenon 

The Cathedral of Rouen . 
The Castle of Heidelberg 
The Ducal Palace .... 
The Mosque of Cordova . 
The Cathedral of Throndtjem 
The Leaning Tower of Pisa . 
The Cathedral of Canterbury 
The Alhambra 









PAGE 


Japan . . Face 178 


Scotland 


I 


' 187 


Belgium 






' 193 


Spain 






' 195 


India 






* 204 


Italy . . . 






' 21 3 


Egypt . 






' 216 


Germany 






' 221 


Italy . . 






' 225 


France . 






' 234 


Turkey . 






' 242 


England 






<■ 248 


Greece . 






' 257 


France . 






' 265 


Gertnany 






' 269 


Italy 






' 280 


Spain 






' 288 


Nor^way 






' 293 


Italy c . 






< 298 


England 






* 301 


Spain 






' 310 



Turrets, Towers, and Temples. 

ST. MARK'S. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

A YARD or two farther, we pass the hostelry of the 
Black Eagle, and, glancing as we pass through 
the square door of marble, deeply moulded, in the outer 
wall, we see the shadows of its pergola of vines resting on 
an ancient well, with a pointed shield carved on its side ; 
and so presently emerge on the bridge and Campo San 
Moise, whence to the entrance into St. Mark's Place, 
called the Bocca di Piazza (mouth of the square), the 
Venetian character is nearly destroyed, first by the fright- 
ful facade of San Moise, which we will pause at another 
time to examine, and then by the modernizing of the 
shops as they near the piazza, and the mingling with the 
lower Venetian populace of lounging groups of English 
and Austrians. We will push fast through them into the 
shadow of the pillars at the end of the " Bocca di Piazza," 
and then we forget them all ; for between those pillars 
there opens a great light, and, in the midst of it, as we 
advance slowly, the vast tower of St. Mark seems to lift 
itself visibly forth from the level field of chequered stones ; 



2 ST. MARK'S. 

and, on each side., the countless arches prolong themselves 
into ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and irregular 
houses that pressed together above us in the dark alley 
had been struck back into sudden obedience and lovely 
order, and all their rude casements and broken walls had 
been transformed into arches charged with goodly sculpture 
and fluted shafts of delicate stone. 

And well may they fall back, for beyond those troops 
of ordered arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and 
all the great square seems to have opened from it in a kind 
of awe, that we may see it far away ; — a multitude of 
pillars and white domes, clustered into a long, low pyra- 
mid of coloured light ; a treasure-heap, it seems, partly 
of gold, and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollovi^ed 
beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair 
mosaic, and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as 
amber and delicate as ivory, — sculpture fantastic and 
involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pome- 
granates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the 
branches, all twined together into an endless network of 
buds and plumes ; and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms 
of angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to 
each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among 
the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves 
beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light 
as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first 
its gates were angel-guarded long ago. And round the 
walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated 
stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine 
spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles, that half refuse 



ST. MARK'S. 3 

and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, " their bluest 
veins to kiss " — the shadow, as it steals back from them, 
revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding 
tide leaves the v^^aved sand ; their capitals rich with inter- 
woven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves 
of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and 
ending in the Cross ; and above them, in the broad archi- 
volts, a continuous chain of language and of life — angels, ' 
and the signs of heaven, and the labours of men, each in 
its appointed season upon the earth ; and above these, 
another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white 
arches edged with scarlet flowers, — a confusion of delight, 
amidst which the breasts of the Greek horses are seen 
blazing in their breadth of golden strength, and the St. 
Mark's Lion, lifted on a blue field covered with stars, 
until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break 
into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue 
sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the 
breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before 
they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral 
and amethyst. 

Between that grim cathedral of England and this, what 
an interval ! There is a type of it in the very birds that 
haunt them; for, instead of the restless crowd, hoarse- 
voiced and sable-winged, drifting on the bleak upper aii*, 
the St. Mark's porches are full of doves, that nestle 
among the marble foliage, and mingle the soft iridescence 
of their living plumes, changing at every motion with the 
tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood unchanged for 
seven hundred years. 



4 ST. MARK'S. 

And what effect has this splendour on those who pass 
beneath it .? You may walk from sunrise to sunset, to and 
fro, before the gateway of St. Mark's, and you will not see 
an eye lifted to it, nor a countenance brightened by it. 
Priest and layman, soldier and civilian, rich and poor, pass 
by it alike regardlessly. Up to the very recesses of the 
porches, the meanest tradesmen of the city push their 
counters ; nay, the foundations of its pillars are themselves 
the seats — not " of them that sell doves " for sacrifice, 
but of vendors of toys and caricatures. Round the whole 
square in front of the church there is almost a continuous 
line of cafes, where the idle Venetians of the middle classes 
lounge, and read empty journals; in its centre the Austrian 
bands play during the time of vespers, their martial music 
jarring with the organ notes, — the march drowning the 
miserere, and the sullen crowd thickening around them, — 
a crowd which, if it had its will, would stiletto every 
soldier that pipes to it. And in the recesses of the porches, 
all day long, knots of men of the lowest classes, unem- 
ployed and listless, lie basking in the sun like lizards ; and 
unregarded children, — every heavy glance of their young 
eyes full of desperation and stony depravity, and their 
throats hoarse with cursing, — gamble, and fight, and snarl, 
and sleep, hour after hour, clashing their bruised centesimi 
upon the marble ledges of the church porch. And the 
images of Christ and His angels look down upon it con- 
tinually. . . . Let us enter the church itself. It is lost 
in still deeper twilight, to which the eye must be accus- 
tomed for some moments before the form of the building 
can be traced j and then there opens before us a vast cave 



ST. MARK'S. 5 

hewn out into the form of a Cross, and divided into 
shadowy aisles by many pillars. Round the domes of 
its roof the light enters only through narrow apertures 
like large stars ; and here and there a ray or two fiom 
some far-away casement wanders into the darkness, and 
casts a narrow phosphoric stream upon the waves of 
marble that heave and fall in a thousand colours along the 
floor. What else there is of light is from torches or silver 
lamps, burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the chapels j 
the roof sheeted with gold, and the polished walls covered 
with alabaster, give back at every curve and angle some 
feeble gleaming to the flames ; and the glories round the 
heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we pass 
them, and sink again into the gloom. Under foot and 
over head, a continual succession of crowded imageiy, one 
picture passing into another, as in a dream ; forms beauti- 
ful and terrible mixed together; dragons and serpents, and 
ravening beasts of prey, and graceful birds that in the 
midst of them drink from running fountains and feed from 
vases of crystal ; the passions and the pleasures of human 
life symbolized together, and the mystery of its redemption; 
for the mazes of interwoven lines and changeful pictures 
lead always at last to the Cross, lifted and carved in every 
place and upon every stone ; sometimes with the serpent 
of eternity wrapt round it, sometimes v/ith doves beneath 
its arms, and sweet herbage growing forth from its feet ; but 
conspicuous most of all on the great rood that crosses the 
church before the altar, raised in bright blazonry against 
the shadow of the apse. And although in the recesses of 
the aisles and chapels, when the mist of the incense hangs 



6 ST. MARK'S. 

heavily, we may see continually a figure traced in faint 
lines upon their marble, a woman standing with her eyes 
raised to heaven, and the inscription above her, " Mother 
of God," she is not here the presiding deity. It is the 
Cross that is first seen, and always, burning in the centre 
of the temple ; and every dome and hollow of its roof has 
the figure of Christ in the utmost height of it, raised in 
power, or returning in judgment. 

Nor is this interior without effect on the minds of the 
people. At every hour of the day there are groups col- 
lected before the various shrines, and solitary worshippers 
scattered through the darker places of the church, evidently 
in prayer both deep and reverent, and, for the most part, 
profoundly sorrowful. The devotees at the greater number 
of the renowned shrines of Romanism may be seen mur- 
muring their appointed prayers with wandering eyes and 
unengaged gestures ; but the step of the stranger does not 
disturb those who kneel on the pavement of St. Mark's ; 
and hardly a moment passes, from early morning to sun- 
set, in which we may not see some half-veiled figure enter 
beneath the Arabian porch, cast itself into long abasement 
on the floor of the temple, and then rising slowly with 
more confirmed step, and with a passionate kiss and clasp 
of the arms given to the feet of the crucifix, by which the 
lamps burn always in the northern aisle, leave the church 
as if comforted. . . . 

It would be easier to illustrate a crest of Scottish moun- 
tain, with its purple heather and pale harebells at their 
fullest and fairest, or a glade of Jura forest, with its floor of 
anemone and moss, than a single portico of St. Mark's. . . , 



ST. MARK'S. 7 

The balls in the archivolt project considerably, and the 
interstices between their interwoven bands of marble are 
filled with colours like the illuminations of a manuscript ; 
violet, crimson, blue, gold, and green alternately : but no 
green is ever used without an intermixture of blue pieces 
in the mosaic, nor any blue without a little centre of pale 
green ; sometimes only a single piece of glass a quarter of 
an inch square, so subtle was the feeling for colour which 
was thus to be satisfied. The intermediate circles have 
golden stars set on an azure ground, varied in the same 
manner; and the small crosses seen in the intervals are 
alternately blue and subdued scarlet, with two small circles 
of white set in the golden ground above and beneath them, 
each only about half an inch across (this work, remember, 
being on the outside of the building, and twenty feet above 
the eye), while the blue crosses have each a pale green 
centre. . . . 

The third cupola, that over the altar, represents the 
witness of the Old Testament to Christ ; showing him 
enthroned in its centre and surrounded by the patriarchs 
and prophets. But this dome was little seen by the 
people ; their contemplation was intended to be chiefly 
drawn to that of the centre of the church, and thus the 
mind of the worshipper was at once fixed on the main 
groundwork and hope of Christianity — " Christ is risen," 
and " Christ shall come." If he had time to explore the 
minor lateral chapels and cupolas, he could find in them 
the whole series of New Testament history, the events 
of the Life of Christ, and the Apostolic miracles in their 
order, and finally the scenery of the Book of Revelation ; 



8 ST. MARK'S. 

but if he only entered, as often the common people do to 
this hour, snatching a few moments before beginning the 
labour of the day to offer up an ejaculatory prayer, and 
advanced but from the main entrance as far as the altar 
screen, all the splendour of the glittering nave and varie- 
gated dome, if they smote upon his heart, as they might 
often, in strange contrast w^ith his reed cabin among the 
shallows of the lagoon, smote upon it only that they might 
proclaim the two great messages — " Christ is risen," and 
" Christ shall come." Daily, as the white cupolas rose 
like wreaths of sea-foam in the dawn, while the shadowy 
campanile and frowning palace were still withdrawn into 
the night, they rose with the Easter Voice of Triumph — 
" Christ is risen ; " and daily, as they looked down upon 
the tumult of the people, deepening and eddying in the 
wide square that opened from their feet to the sea, they 
uttered above them the sentence of warning, — " Christ 
shall come." 

And this thought may surely dispose the reader to look 
with some change of temper upon the gorgeous building 
and wild blazonry of that shrine of St. Mark's. He now 
perceives that it was in the hearts of the old Venetian 
people far more than a place of worship. It was at once 
a type of the Redeemed Church of God, and a scroll for 
the written word of God. It was to be to them, both an 
image of the Bride, all glorious within, her clothing of 
wrought gold ; and the actual Table of the Law and the 
Testimony, written within and without. And whether 
honoured as the Church or as the Bible, was it not fitting 
that neither the gold nor the crystal should be spared 



ST. MARK'S. 9 

in the adornment of it ; that, as the symbol of the Bride, 
the building of the wall thereof should be of jasper, and 
the foundations of it garnished with all manner of precious 
stones; and that, as the channel of the World, that trium- 
phant utterance of the Psalmist should be true of it — "I 
have rejoiced in the way of thy testimonies, as much as in 
all riches " ? And shall we not look with changed temper 
down the long perspective of St. Mark's Place towards 
the sevenfold gates and glowing domes of its temple, 
when we know with what solemn purpose the shafts of 
it were lifted above the pavement of the populous square ? 
Men met there from all countries of the earth, for traffic 
or for pleasure ; but, above the crowd swaying forever to 
and fro in the restlessness of avarice or thirst of delight, 
was seen perpetually the glory of the temple, attesting to 
them, whether they v/ould hear or whether they would 
forbear, that there was one treasure which the merchant- 
men might buy without a price, and one delight better 
than all others, in the word and the statutes of God. Not 
in the wantonness of wealth, not in vain ministry to the 
desire of the eyes or the pride of life, were those marbles 
hewn into transparent strength, and those arches arrayed 
in the colours of the iris. There is a message written in 
the dyes of them, that once was written in blood ; and a 
sound in the echoes of their vaults, that one day shall fill 
the vault of heaven, — " He shall return, to do judgment 
and justice." The strength of Venice was given her, so 
long as she remembered this : her destruction found her 
when she had forgotten this ; and it found her irrevocably, 
because she forgot it without excuse. Never had city a 



lO ST. MARK'S. 

more glorious Bible. Among the nations of the North, a 
rude and shadowy sculpture filled their temples with con- 
fused and hardly legible imagery; but, for her the skill 
and the treasures of the East had gilded every letter, and 
illumined every page, till the Book-Temple shone from 
afar off like the star of the Magi. 

St07ies of Venice (London, i85i-'3). 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. 

WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON. 

HALF a mile below London Bridge, on ground which 
was once a bluff, commanding the Thames from 
St. Saviours Creek to St. Olave's ^Miarf, stands the 
Tower ; a mass of ramparts, walls, and gates, the most 
ancient and most poetic pile in Europe. 

Seen from the hill outside, the Tower appears to be 
white with age and wrinkled by remorse. The home of 
our stoutest kings, the grave of our noblest knights, the 
scene of our gayest revels, the field of our darkest crimes, 
that edifice speaks at once to the eye and to the soul. 
Grey keep, green tree, black gate, and frowning battlement, 
stand out, apart from all objects far and near them, menac- 
ing, picturesque, enchaining; working on the senses like a 
spell ; and calling us away from our daily mood into a 
world of romance, hke that which we find painted in light 
and shadow on Shakespeare's page. 

Looking at the Tower as either a prison, a palace, or a 
court, picture, poetry, and drama crowd upon the mind ; 
and if the fancy dwells most frequently on the state prison, 
this is because the soul is more readily kindled by a human 
interest than fired bv an archaic and official fact. For one 
man who would care to see the room in v.-hich a council 



ti THE TOWER OF LONDON. 

met or a court was held, a hundred men would like to see 
the chamber in which Lady Jane Grey was lodged, the cell 
in which Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, the tower from which 
Sir John Oldcastle escaped. Who would not like to stand 
for a moment by those steps on which Ann Boleyn knelt ; 
pause by that slit in the wall through which Arthur De la 
Pole gazed ; and linger, if he could, in that room in which 
Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley, searched the New Testa- 
ment together ? 

The Tower has an attraction for us akin to that of the 
house in which we were born, the school in which we were 
trained. Go where we may, that grim old edifice on the 
Pool goes with us ; a part of all we know, and of all we 
are. Put seas between us and the Thames, this Tower 
will cling to us like a thing of life. It colours Shakespeare's 
page. It casts a momentary gloom over Bacon's story. 
Many of our books were written in its vaults ; the Duke of 
Orleans' " Poesies," Raleigh's " Historic of the World," 
Eliot's " Monarchy of Man," and Penn's " No Cross, No 
Crown." 

Even as to the length of days, the Tower has no rival 
among palaces and prisons; its origin, Uke that of the Iliad, 
that of the Sphinx, that of the Newton Stone, being lost in 
the nebulous ages, long before our definite history took 
shape. Old writers date it from the days of Caesar; a 
legend taken up by Shakespeare and the poets, in favour of 
which the name of Ceesar's Tower remains in popular use 
to this very day. A Roman wall can even yet be traced 
near some parts of the ditch. The Tower is mentioned in 
the Saxon Chronicle, in a way not incompatible with the 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. 13 

fact of a Saxon stronghold having stood upon this spot. 
The buildings as we have them nov\^ in block and plan 
were commenced by William the Conqueror; and the 
series of apartments in Cesar's tower, — hall, gallery, 
council-chamber, chapel, — were built in the early Nor- 
man reigns, and used as a royal residence by all our Nor- 
man kings. What can Europe show to compare against 
such a tale ? 

Set against the Tower of London — with its eight hun- 
dred years of historic life, its nineteen hundred years of 
traditional fame — all other palaces and prisons appear like 
things of an hour. The oldest bit of palace in Europe, 
that of the west front of the Burg in Vienna, is of the time 
of Henry the Third. The Kremlin in Moscow, the 
Doge's Palazzo in Venice, are of the Fourteenth Century. 
The Seraglio in Stamboul was built by Mohammed the 
Second. The oldest part of the Vatican was commenced 
by Borgia, whose name it bears. The old Louvre was 
commenced in the reign of Henry the Eighth ; the Tuileries 
in that of Elizabeth. In the time of our Civil War Ver- 
sailles was yet a swamp. Sans Souci and the Escurial 
belong to the Eighteenth Century. The Serail of Jeru- 
salem is a Turkish edifice. The palaces of Athens, of 
Cairo, or Tehran, are all of modern date. 

Neither can the prisons which remain in fact as well as 
in history and drama — with the one exception of St. 
Angelo in Rome — compare against the Tower. The 
Bastile is gone ; the Bargello has become a museum ; the 
Piombi are removed from the Doge's roof. Vincennes, 
Spandau, Spilberg, Magdeburg, are all modern in compari- 



14 THE TOWER OF LONDON. 

son with a jail from which Ralph Flambard escaped so 
long ago as the year iioo, the date of the First Crusade. 

Standing on Tower Hill, looking down on the dark lines 
of wall — picking out keep and turret, bastion and ballium, 
chapel and belfry — the jewel-house, the armoury, the 
mounts, the casemates, the open leads — the Bye- ward 
gate, the Belfry, the Bloody tower — the whole edifice 
seems alive with story ; the story of a nation's highest 
splendour, its deepest misery, and its darkest shame. The 
soil beneath your feet is richer in blood than many a great 
battlefield j for out upon this sod has been poured, from 
generation to generation, a stream of the noblest life in our 
land. Should you have come to this spot alone, in the 
early day, when the Tower is noisy with martial doings, 
you may haply catch, in the hum which rises from the ditch 
and issues from the wall below you — broken by roll of 
drum, by blast of bugle, by tramp of soldiers — - some 
echoes, as it were, of a far-off^ time ; some hints of a May- 
day revel ; of a state execution ; of a royal entry. You 
may catch some sound which recalls the thrum of a queen's 
virginal, the cry of a victim on the rack, the laughter of a 
bridal feast. For all these sights and sounds — the dance 
of love and the dance of death — are part of that gay and 
tragic memory which clings around the Tower. 

From the reign of Stephen down to that of Henry of 
Richmond, Caesar's tower (the great Norman keep, now 
called the White tower) was a main part of the royal 
palace ; and for that large interval of time, the story of the 
White tower is in some sort that of our English society as 
well as of our English kings. Here were kept the royal 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. I5 

wardrobe and the royal jewels ; and hither came with their 
goodly wares, the tiremen, the goldsmiths, the chasers and 
embroiderers, from Flanders, Italy, and Almaigne. Close 
by were the Mint, the lions' dens, the old archery-grounds, 
the Court of King's Bench, the Court of Common Pleas, 
the Queen's gardens, the royal banqueting-hall ; so that art 
and trade, science and manners, literature and law, sport 
and politics, find themselves equally at home. 

Two great architects designed the main parts of the 
Tower ; Gundul the Weeper and Henry the Builder ; one 
a poor Norman monk, the other a great English king. . . . 

Henry the Third, a prince of epical fancies, as Corffe, 
Conway, Beaumaris, and many other fine poems in stone 
attest, not only spent much of his time in the Tower, but 
much of his money in adding to its beauty and strength. 
Adam de Lamburn was his master mason ; but Henry was 
his own chief clerk of the works. The Water gate, the 
embanked wharf, the Cradle tower, the Lantern, which he 
made his bedroom and private closet, the Galieyman tower, 
and the first wall, appear to have been his gifts. But the 
prince who did so much for Westminster Abbey, not con- 
tent with giving stone and piles to the home in which he 
dwelt, enriched the chambers with frescoes and sculpture, 
the chapels with carving and glass ; making St. John's 
chapel in the White tower splendid with saints, St. Peter's 
church on the Tower Green musical with bells. In the 
Hall tower, from which a passage led through the Great 
hall into the King's bedroom in the Lantern, he built a tiny 
chapel for his private use — a chapel which served for the 
devotion of his successors until Henry the Sixth was stabbed 



l6 THE TOWER OF LONDON. 

to death before the cross. Sparing neither skill nor gold to 
make the great fortress worthy of his art, he sent to Pur- 
beck for marble, and to Caen for stone. The dabs of lime, 
the spawls of flint, the layers of brick, which deface the 
walls and towers in too many places, are of either earlier or 
later times. The marble shafts, the noble groins, the deli- 
cate traceries, are Henry's work. Traitor's gate, one of 
the noblest arches in the world, was built by him ; in short, 
nearly all that is purest in art is traceable to his reign. . . . 

The most eminent and interesting prisoner ever lodged 
in the Tower is Raleigh ; eminent by his personal genius, 
interesting from his political fortune. Raleigh has in 
higher degree than any other captive who fills the Tower 
with story, the distinction that he was not the prisoner of 
his country, but the prisoner of Spain. 

Many years ago I noted in the State Papers evidence, 
then unknown, that a very great part of the second and 
long imprisonment of the founder of Virginia was spent 
in the Bloody tower and the adjoining Garden house ; 
writing at this grated window ; working in the little garden 
on which it opened ; pacing the terrace on this wall, which 
was afterwards famous as Raleigh's Walk. Hither came 
to him the wits and poets, the scholars and inventors of 
his time; Johnson and Burrell, Hariot and Pettj to crack 
light jokes ; to discuss rabbinical lore ; to sound the depths 
of philosophy ; to map out Virginia ; to study the ship- 
builder's art. In the Garden house he distilled essences 
and spirits ; compounded his great cordial ; discovered a 
method (afterwards lost) of turning salt water into sweet ; 
received the visits of Prince Henry ; wrote his political 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. I7 

tracts ; invented the modern warship ; wrote his History of 

the World. . . . 

The day of Raleigh's death was the day of a new Eng- 
lish birth. Eliot was not the only youth of ardent soul 
who stood by the scaffold in Palace Yard, to note the 
matchless spirit in which the martyr met his fate, and 
walked away from that solemnity — a new man. Thou- 
sands of men in every part of England who had led a care- 
less life became from that very hour the sleepless enemies 
of Spain. The purposes of Raleigh were accomplished, 
in the very way which his genius had contrived. Spain 
held the dominion of the sea, and England took it from 
her. Spain excluded England from the New World, and 
the genius of that New World is English. 

The large contest in the new political system of the 
world, then young, but clearly enough defined, had come 
to turn upon this question — Shall America be mainly 
Spanish and theocratic, or English and free ? Raleigh 
said it should be English and free. He gave his blood, 
his fortune, and his genius, to the great thought in his 
heart ; and, in spite of that scene in Palace Yard, which 
struck men as the victory of Spain, America is at this 
moment English and free. 

Her Majesty s Tovjer (London, 1869). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

I WAS awakened this morning with the chime which 
the Antwerp Cathedral clock plays at half hours. 
The tune has been haunting me ever since, as tunes will. 
You dress, eat, drink, walk, and talk to yourself to their 
tune ; their inaudible jingle accompanies you all day ; you 
read the sentences of the paper to their rhythm. I tried 
uncouthly to imitate the tune to the ladies of the family 
at breakfast, and they say it is " the shadow dance of 
Dinorah." It may be so. I dimly remember that my body 
was once present during the performance of that opera, 
while my eyes were closed, and my intellectual faculties 
dormant at the back of the box ; howbeit, I have learned 
that shadow dance from hearing it pealing up ever so high 
in the air at night, morn, noon. 

How pleasant to lie awake and listen to the cheery peal, 
while the old city is asleep at midnight, or waking up rosy 
at sunrise, or basking in noon, or swept by the scudding 
rain which drives in gusts over the broad places, and the 
great shining river; or sparkling in snow, which dresses 
up a hundred thousand masts, peaks, and towers ; or 
wrapped round with thunder — cloud canopies, before which 
the white gables shine whiter ; day and night the kind 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 19 

little carillon plays its fantastic melodies overhead. The 
bells go on ringing, ^ot vivos vacant^ inortuos plangunt^ 
fulgura frangunt ; so on to the past and future tenses, and 
for how many nights, days, and years ! While the French 
were pitching their fulgtu'a into Chasse's citadel, the bells 
went on ringing quite cheerfully. While the scaffolds 
were up and guarded by Alva's soldiery, and regiments of 
penitents, blue, black, and grey, poured out of churches 
and convents, droning their dirges, and marching to the 
place of the Hotel de Ville, where heretics and rebels were 
to meet their doom, the bells up yonder were chanting at 
their appointed half hours and quarters, and rang the mau- 
vais quart d'heure for many a poor soul. This bell can 
see as far away as the towers and dikes of Rotterdam. 
That one can call a greeting to St. Ursula's at Brussels, 
and toss a recognition to that one at the town hall of 
Oudenarde, and remember how, after a great struggle 
there a hundred and fifty years ago, the whole plain was 
covered with flying French chivalry — Burgundy, and 
Berri, and the Chevalier of St. George flying like the rest. 
" What is your clamour about Oudenarde ? " says another 
bell (Bob Major this one must be). " Be still thou queru- 
lous old clapper ! / can see over to Hougoumont and 
St. John. And about forty-five years since, I rang all 
through one Sunday in June, when there was such a 
battle going on in the cornfields there as none of you 
others ever heard tolled of. Yes, from morning service 
until after vespers, the French and English were all at 
it, ding-dong ! " And then calls of business intervening, 
the bells have to give up their private jangle, resume their 



20 THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 

professional duty, and sing their hourly chorus out of 
D 17107' ah. 

What a prodigious distance those bells can be heard ! 
I was awakened this morning to their tune, I say. I have 
been hearing it constantly ever since. And this house 
whence I write, Murray says, is two hundred and ten 
miles from Antwerp. And it is a week off; and there is 
the bell still jangling its shadow dance out of D'morah. 
An audible shadow, you understand, and an invisible sound, 
but quite distinct ; and a plague take the tune ! 

Who has not seen the church under the bell ? Those 
lofty aisles, those twilight chapels, that cumbersome pulpit 
with its huge carvings, that wide grey pavement flecked 
with various light from the jewelled windows, those famous 
pictures between the voluminous columns over the altars 
which twinkle with their ornaments, their votive little silver 
hearts, legs, limbs, their little guttering tapers, cups of 
sham roses, and what not ? I saw two regiments of little 
scholars creeping in and forming square, each in its ap- 
pointed place, under the vast roof, and teachers presently 
coming to them. A stream of light from the jewelled 
windows beams slanting down upon each little squad of 
children, and the tall background of the church retires 
into a greyer gloom. Pattering little feet of laggards 
arriving echo through the great nave. They trot in and 
join their regiments, gathered under the slanting sun- 
beams. What are they learning ? Is it truth ? Those 
two grey ladies with their books in their hands in the 
midst of these little people have no doubt of the truth of 
every v^^ord they have printed under their eyes. Look, 




THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 21 

through the windows jewelled all over with saints, the 
light comes streaming down from the sky, and heaven's 
own illuminations paint the book ! A sweet, touching 
picture indeed it is, that of the little children assembled in 
this immense temple, which has endured for ages, and 
grave teachers bending over them. Yes, the picture is 
very pretty of the children and their teachers, and their 
book — but the text ? Is it the truth, the only truth, 
nothing but the truth ? If I thought so, I would go and 
sit down on the form cum parvulis^ and learn the precious 
lesson with all my heart. 

But I submit, an obstacle to conversions is the intrusion 
and impertinence of that Swiss fellow with the baldric — 
the officer who answers to the beadle of the British islands 
— and is pacing about the church with an eye on the 
congregation. Now the boast of Catholics is that their 
churches are open to all; but in certain places and 
churches there are exceptions. At Rome I have been 
into St. Peter's at all hours : the doors are always open, 
the lamps are always burning, the faithful are forever 
kneeling at one shrine or the other. But at Antwerp it 
is not so. In the afternoon you can go to the church and 
be civilly treated, but you must pay a franc at the side 
gate. In the forenoon the doors are open, to be sure, 
and there is no one to levy an entrance fee. I was stand- 
ing ever so still, looking through the great gates of the 
choir at the twinkling lights, and listening to the distant 
chants of the priests performing the service, when a sweet 
chorus from the organ-loft broke out behind me overhead, 
and I turned round. My friend the drum-major ecclesi- 



22 THE CATHEDRAL OF ANTWERP. 

astic was down upon me in a moment. " Do not turn 
your back to the altar during divine service," says he, in 
very intelligible English. I take the rebuke, and turn a 
soft right-about face, and listen a while as the service con- 
tinues. See it I cannot, nor the altar and its ministrants. 
We are separated from these by a great screen and closed 
gates of iron, through which the lamps glitter and the 
chant comes by gusts only. Seeing a score of children 
trotting down a side aisle, I think I may follow them. I 
am tired of looking at that hideous old pulpit, with its 
grotesque monsters and decorations. I slip off to the side 
aisle ; but my friend the drum-major is instantly after me 
— almost I thought he was going to lay hands on me. 
" You must n't go there," says he ; " you must n't dis- 
turb the service." I was moving as quietly as might be, 
and ten paces off there were twenty children kicking and 
chattering at their ease. I point them out to the Swiss. 
" They come to pray," says he. " Tou don't come to 
pray J you — " "When I come to pay," says I, " I am 
welcome," and with this withering sarcasm I walk out of 
church in a huff. I don't envy the feelings of that beadle 
after receiving point blank such a stroke of wit. 

Roundabout Papers (London, 1863). 



THE TAJ MAHAL. 

ANDRE CHEVRILLON. 

IT is well known that the Taj is a mausoleum built by 
the Mogul Shah-Jehan to the Begum Mumtaz-i- 
Mahal. It is a regular octagon surmounted by a Persian 
dome, which is surrounded by four minarets. The build- 
ing, erected upon a terrace which dominates the enclosing 
gardens, is constructed of blocks of the purest white 
marble, and rises to a height of two hundred and forty- 
three feet. We step from the carriage before a noble 
portico of red sandstone, pierced by a bold arch and 
covered with white arabesques. After passing through 
this arch, we see the Taj looming up before us eight 
hundred metres distant. Probably no masterpiece of archi- 
tecture calls forth a similar emotion. 

At the back of a marvellous garden and with all of its 
whiteness reflected in a canal of dark water, sleeping inertly 
among thick masses of black cypress and great clumps of 
red flowers, this perfect tomb rises like a calm apparition. 
It is a floating dream, an aerial form without weight, so 
perfect is the balance of the lines, and so pale, so delicate 
the shadows that float across the virginal and translucent 
stone. These black cypresses which frame it, this verdure 
through the openings of which peeps the blue sky, and 



24 THE TAJ MAHAL. 

this sward bathed in brilliant sunlight and on which the 
sharply-cut silhouettes of the trees are lying, — all these 
real objects render more unreal the delicate vision, which 
seems to melt away into the light of the sky. I walk 
towards it along the marble bank of the dark canal, and 
the mausoleum assumes sharper form. On approaching 
you take more delight in the surface of the octagonal 
edifice. This consists of rectangular expanses of polished 
marble where the light rests with a soft, milky splendour. 
One would never imagine that so simple a thing as surface 
could be so beautiful when it is large and pure. The eye 
follows the ingenious and graceful scrolls of great flowers, 
flowers of onyx and turquoise, incrusted with perfect 
smoothness, the harmony of the delicate carving, the 
marble lace-work, the balustrades of a thousand perfora- 
tions, — the infinite display of simplicity and decoration. 

The garden completes the monument, and both unite 
to form this masterpiece of art. The avenues leading to 
the Taj are bordered with funereal yews and cypresses, 
which make the whiteness of the far-away marble appear 
even whiter. Behind their slender cones thick and massive 
bushes add richness and depth to this solemn vegetation. 
The stiff and sombre trees, standing out in relief from this 
waving foliage, rise up solemnly with their trunks half- 
buried in masses of roses, or are surrounded by clusters 
of a thousand unknown and sweet-scented flowers which 
are blossoming in great masses in this solitary garden. He 
must have been an extraordinary artist who conceived this 
place. Sweeps of lawn, purple-chaliced flov/ers, golden 
petals, swarms of humming bees, and diapered butterflies 



THE TAJ MAHAL. 2$ 

give light and joy to the gloom of the burial-ground. This 
place is both luminous and solemn ; it contains the 
amorous and religious delights of the Mussulman paradise, 
and the poem in trees and flowers unites with the poem 
in marble to sing of splendour and peace. 

The interior of the mausoleum is at first as dark as 
night, but through this darkness a grille of antique marble 
is faintly gleaming, a mysterious marble-lace, which drapes 
the tombs, and which seems to wind and unwind forever, 
shedding on the splendour of the vault a yellow light, 
which seems to be ancient, and to have rested there for 
ages. And the pale web of marble wreathes and wreathes 
until it loses itself in the darkness. 

In the centre are the tombs of the lovers ; two small 
sarcophagi upon which a mysterious light falls, but whence 
it comes no one knows. There is nothing more. They 
sleep here in the silence, surrounded by perfect beauty 
which celebrates their love that has lasted even through 
death, and which is still isolated from everything by the 
mysterious marble-lace which enfolds them and which 
floats above them like a dream. 

Very high overhead, as if through a thick vapour, we 
see the dome loom through the shadows, although its entire 
outlines are not perceptible ; its walls seem made of mist, 
and its marble blocks appear to have no solidity. Every- 
thing is aerial here, nothing is substantial or real : this is 
a world of shadowy visions. Even sounds are unearthly. 
A note sung under this vault is echoed above our heads in an 
invisible region. First, it is as clear as the voice of Ariel, 
then it grows fainter and fainter until it dies away and then 



26 THE TAJ MAHAL. 

is re-echoed very far above, but glorified, spiritualized, and 
multiplied indefinitely as if repeated by a distant company, 
a choir of unseen angels vi^ho soar with it aloft until all is 
lost save a faint murmur which never ceases to vibrate 
over the tomb of the beloved, as if it were the very soul 
of a musician. 

I have seen the Taj again ; this time at noon. Under 
the vertical sun the melancholy phantom has vanished, the 
sweet sadness of the mausoleum has gone. The great 
marble table on which it stands is blinding. The light, 
reflected back and forth from the immense surfaces of 
white marble, is increased a hundred-fold in intensity, and 
some of the sides are like burning plaques. The incrusta- 
tions seem to be sparks of magic fire ; their hundreds of 
red flowers gleam like burning coals. The religious texts 
and the hieroglyphs, inlaid with black marble, stand out as 
if traced by the lightning-finger of a savage god. All the 
mystical rows of lotus and lilies unfolding in relief, which 
just now had the softness of yellowed ivory, spring forth 
like flames. — I retrace my steps, passing out of the entrance, 
and for an instant I have a dazzling view of the lines and 
incandescent surfaces of the building with its unchanging 
virgin whiteness.- — Indeed, this severe simplicity and in- 
tensity of light give it something of a Semitic character : 
we think of the flaming and chastening sword of the 
Bible. The minarets lift themselves into the blue like 
pillars of fire. 

I wander outside in the fresh air under the shadows of 
the leafy arches until twilight. This garden is the con- 
ception of one of the faithful who wished to glorify Allah. 



THE TAJ MAHAL. 27 

It is the home of religious delight : — " No one shall enter 
the garden of God unless he is pure of heart," is the 
Arabian text graven over the entrance-gate. Here are 
flower-beds, which are masses of velvet, — unknown 
blooms resembling heaps of purple moss. The trunks of 
the trees are entwined with blue^ convolvulus, and flowers 
like great red stars gleam through the dark foliage. Over 
these flowers a hundred thousand delicate butterflies hover 
in a perpetual cloud. Many pretty creatures, little striped 
squirrels and numerous birds, green parrots and parrots of 
more brilliant plumage, disport themselves here, making a 
little world, happy and secure, for guards, dressed in white 
muslin, menace with long pea-shooters the crows and 
vultures and protect them from everything that would bring 
mischief or cruelty into this peaceful place. 

On the surface of the still waters lilies and lotus are 
sleeping, their stiff leaves pinked out and resting heavily 
upon the dark mirror. 

Through the blackness of the boughs English meadows 
are revealed, bathed in brilliant sunlight, and spaces of 
blue sky, across which a triangle of white storks is some- 
times seen flying, and, at certain moments, the far-away 
vision of the phantom tomb seems like the melancholy 
spectre of a virgin. — How calm, how superb this solitude, 
charged with voluptuousness at once solemn and enervating ! 
Here dwell the beauty, the tenderness, and the light of 
Asia, dreamed of by Shelley. 

Dans r Inde (Paris, 1891). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 

VICTOR HUGO. 

MOST certainly, the Cathedral of Notre-Dame is 
still a sublime and majestic edifice. But, despite 
the beauty which it preserves in its old age, it would be 
impossible not to be indignant at the injuries and mutila- 
tions which Time and man have jointly inflicted upon the 
venerable structure without respect for Charlemagne, who 
laid its first stone, and Philip Augustus, who laid its last. 

There is always a scar beside a wrinkle on the face of 
this aged queen of our cathedrals. Tempus edax homo 
edacior^ which I should translate thus : Time is blind, man 
is stupid. 

If we had leisure to examine one by one, with the 
reader, the various traces of destruction imprinted on the 
old church. Time's work would prove to be less destructive 
than men's, especially des hommes de I'art^ because there 
have been some individuals in the last two centuries who 
considered themselves architects. 

First, to cite several striking examples, assuredly there 
are few more beautiful pages in architecture than that 
facade, exhibiting the three deeply-dug porches with their 
pointed arches ; the plinth, embroidered and indented with 
twenty-eight royal niches ; the immense central rose- 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 29 

window, flanked by its two lateral windows, like the priest 
by his deacon and sub-deacon ; the high and frail gallery 
of open-worked arches, supporting on its delicate columns 
a heavy platform ; and, lastly, the two dark and massive 
towers, with their slated pent-houses. These harmonious 
parts of a magnificent whole, superimposed in five gigantic 
stages, and presenting, with their innumerable details of 
statuary, sculpture, and carving, an overwhelming yet 
not perplexing mass, combine in producing a calm 
grandeur. It is a vast symphony in stone, so to speak ; • 
the colossal work of man and of a nation, as united and as 
complex as the Iliad and the ronimxceros of which it is the 
sister; a prodigious production to which all the forces of 
an epoch contributed, and from every stone of which springs 
forth in a hundred ways the workman's fancy directed by 
the artist's genius ; in one word, a kind of human creation, 
as strong and fecund as the divine creation from which it 
seems to have stolen the two-fold character : variety and 
eternity. 

And what I say here of the facade, must be said of the 
entire Cathedral ; and what I say of the Cathedral of Paris, 
must be said of all the Mediaeval Christian churches. 
Everything in this art, which proceeds from itself, is so 
logical and well-proportioned that to measure the toe of 
the foot is to measure the giant. 

Let us return to the facade of Notre-Dame, as it exists 
to-day when we go reverently to admire the solemn and 
mighty Cathedral, which, according to the old chroniclers, 
was terrifying ; quce mole sua terrorem inciitit spectantibus. 

That facade now lacks three important things : first, the 



30 THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 

flight of eleven steps, which raised it above the level of the 
ground ; then, the lower row of statues which occupied 
the niches of the three porches ; and the upper row ^ of the 
twenty-eight ancient kings of France which ornamented 
the gallery of the first story, beginning with Childebert and 
ending with Philip Augustus, holding in his hand " la pomme 
impirlakr 

Time in its slow and unchecked progress, raising the 
level of the city's soil, buried the steps ; but whilst the 
pavement of Paris like a rising tide has engulfed one by 
one the eleven steps which formerly added to the majestic 
height of the edifice. Time has given to the church more, 
perhaps, than it has stolen, for it is Time that has spread 
that sombre hue of centuries on the facade which makes 
the old age of buildings their period of beauty. 

But who has thrown down those two rows of statues ? 
Who has left the niches empty ? Who has cut that new 
and bastard arch in the beautiful middle of the central 
porch ? Who has dared to frame that tasteless and heavy 
wooden door carved a la Louis XV. near Biscornette's 
arabesques ? The men, the architects, the artists of our 
day. 

And when we enter the edifice, who has overthrown 
that colossal Saint Christopher, proverbial among statues 
as the grand' salle du Palais among halls, or the fleche of 
Strasburg among steeples ? And those myriads of statues 
that peopled all the spaces between the columns of the 
nave and choir, kneeling, standing, on horseback, men, 

1 The outside of Notre-Dame has been restored since Victor Hugo 
wrote his famous romance. — E. S. 




THE CATHEDRAL OF XOTRE-DAME. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 3 1 

women, children, kings, bishops, warriors, in stone, wood, 
marble, gold, silver, copper, and even wax, — who has 
brutally swept them away ? It was not Time ! 

And who has substituted for the old Gothic altar, splen- 
didly overladen with shrines and reliquaries, that heavy 
marble sarcophagus with its angels' heads and clouds, 
which seems to be a sample from the Val-de-Grace or the 
Invalides ? Who has so stupidly imbedded that heavy 
stone anachronism in Hercanduc's Carlovingian pavement ? 
Is it not Louis XIV. fulfilling the vow of Louis XIII. ? 

And who has put cold white glass in the place of those 
richly-coloured panes, which made the astonished gaze of 
our ancestors pause between the rose of the great porch 
and the pointed arches of the apsis ? What would an 
under-chorister of the Sixteenth Century say if he could 
see the beautiful yellow plaster with which our vandal 
archbishops have daubed their Cathedral ? He would 
remember that this was the colour with which the execu- 
tioner brushed the houses of traitors ; he would remember 
the Hotel du Petit-Bourbon, all besmeared thus with 
yellow, on account of the treason of the Constable, 
"yellow of such good quality," says Sauval, "and so well 
laid on that more than a century has scarcely caused its 
colour to fade ; " and, imagining that the holy place had 
become infamous, he would flee from it. 

And if we ascend the Cathedral without stopping to 
notice the thousand barbarities of all kinds, what has been 
done with that charming little bell-tower, which stood 
over the point of Intersection of the transept, and which, 
neither less frail nor less bold than its neighbour, the 



32 THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 

Steeple of the Sainte-Chapelle (also destroyed), shot up 
into the sky, sharp, harmonious, and open-worked, higher 
than the other towers ? It was amputated by an architect 
of good taste (1787), who thought it sufficient to cover the 
wound with that large plaster of lead, which looks like 
the lid of a pot. 

This is the way the wonderful art of the Middle Ages 
has been treated in all countries, particularly in France. 
In this ruin we may distinguish three separate agencies, 
which have affected it in different degrees ; first, Time 
which has insensibly chipped it, here and there, and dis- 
coloured its entire surface 5 next, revolutions, both politi- 
cal and religious, which, being blind and furious by nature, 
rushed wildly upon it, stripped it of its rich garb of sculp- 
tures and carvings, shattered its tracery, broke its garlands 
of arabesques and its figurines, and threw down its statues, 
sometimes on account of their mitres, sometimes on ac- 
count of their crowns ; and, finally, the fashions, which, 
ever since the anarchistic and splendid innovations of the 
Renaissance, have been constantly growing more grotesque 
and foolish, and have succeeded in bringing about the 
decadence of architecture. The fashions have indeed 
done more harm than the revolutions. They have cut it 
to the quick ; they have attacked the framework of art ; 
th'ey have cut, hacked, and mutilated the form of the build- 
ing as well as its symbol ; its logic as well as its beauty. 
And then they have restored, a presumption of which time 
and revolutions were, at least, guiltless. In the name of 
good taste they have insolently covered the wounds of 
Gothic architecture with their paltry gew-gaws of a day, 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 33 

their marble ribbons, their metal pompons, a veritable 
leprosy of oval ornaments, volutes, spirals, draperies, gar- 
lands, fringes, flames of stone, clouds of bronze, over-fat 
Cupids, and bloated cherubim, which begin to eat into the 
face of art in Catherine de' Medici's oratory, and kill it, 
writhing and grinning in the boudoir of the Dubarry, two 
centuries later. 

Therefore, in summing up the points to which I have 
called attention, three kinds of ravages disfigure Gothic 
architecture to-day : wrinkles and warts on the epidermis, 
— these are the work of Time ; wounds, bruises and 
fractures, — these are the work of revolutions from Luther 
to Mirabeau ; mutilations, amputations, dislocations of 
members, restorations^ — these are the Greek and Roman 
work of professors, according to Vitruvius and Vignole. 
That magnificent art which the Vandals produced, acad- 
emies have murdered. To the ravages of centuries and 
revolutions, which devastated at least with impartiality 
and grandeur, were added those of a host of school archi- 
tects, patented and sworn, who debased everything with 
the choice and discernment of bad taste ; and who sub- 
stituted the chicorees of Louis XV. for the Gothic lace- 
work, for the greater glory of the Parthenon. It is the 
ass's kick to the dying lion. It is the old oak crown- 
ing itself with leaves for the reward of being bitten, 
gnawed, and devoured by caterpillars. 

How far this is from the period when Robert Cenalis, 
comparing Notre-Dame de Paris with the famous Temple 
of Diana at Ephesus, so highly extolled by the ancient 
heathen, which has immortalized Erostratus, found the 

3 



34 THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 

Gaulois cathedral " plus excellsnte en longueur^ largeur^ 
hauteur^ et structure." 

Notre-Dame de Paris is not, however, what may be 
called a finished, defined, classified monument. It is not 
a Roman church, neither is it a Gothic church. This 
edifice is not a type. Notre-Dame has not, like the Abbey 
of Tournus, the solemn and massive squareness, the round 
and large vault, the glacial nudity, and the majestic sim- 
plicity of those buildings which have the circular arch for 
their generative principle. It is not, like the Cathedral of 
Bourges, the magnificent product of light, multiform, tufted, 
bristling, efflorescent Gothic. It is out of the question to 
class it in that ancient family of gloomy, mysterious, low 
churches, which seem crushed by the circular arch ; almost 
Egyptian in their ceiling j quite hieroglyphic, sacerdotal, 
and symbolic, charged in their ornaments with more 
lozenges and zigzags than flowers, more flowers than 
animals, more animals than human figures ; the work of 
the bishop more than the architect, the first transformation 
of the art, fully impressed with theocratic and military 
discipline, which takes its root in the Bas-Empire, and 
ends with William the Conqueror. It is also out of the 
question to place our Cathedral in that other family of 
churches, tall, aerial, rich in windows and sculpture, sharp 
in form, bold of mien ; communales and bourgeois^ like politi- 
cal symbols; free, capricious, unbridled, like works of art; 
the second transformation of architecture, no longer hiero- 
glyphic, immutable, and sacerdotal, but artistic, progressive, 
and popular, which begins with the return from the Cru- 
sades and ends with Louis XL Notre-Dame de Paris is 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 35 

not pure Roman, like the former, nor is it pure Arabian, 
like the latter. 

It is an edifice of the transition. The Saxon architect 
had set up the first pillars of the nave when the Crusaders 
introduced the pointed arch, which enthroned itself like a 
conqueror upon those broad Roman capitals designed to 
support circular arches. On the pointed arch, thenceforth 
mistress of all styles, the rest of the church was built. 
Inexperienced and timid at the beginning, it soon broadens 
and expands, but does not yet dare to shoot up into steeples 
and pinnacles, as it has since done in so many marvellous 
cathedrals. You might say that it feels the influence of its 
neighbours, the heavy Roman pillars. 

Moreover, these edifices of the transition from the 
Roman to the Gothic are not less valuable for study than 
pure types. They express a nuance of the art which would 
be lost but for them. This is the engrafting of the pointed 
upon the circular arch. 

Notre-Dame de Paris is a particularly curious specimen 
of this variety. Every face and every stone of the vener- 
able structure is a page not only of the history of the coun- 
try, but also of art and science. Therefore to glance here 
only at the principal details, while the little Porte Rouge 
attains almost to the limits of the Gothic delicacy of the 
Fifteenth Century, the pillars of the nave, on account of 
their bulk and heaviness, carry you back to the date of the 
Carlovingian Abbey of Saint-Germain des Pres, you would 
believe that there were six centuries between that doorway 
and those pillars. It is not only the hermetics who find in 
the symbols of the large porch a satisfactory compendium 



36 THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 

of their science, of which the church of Saint-Jacques de la 
Boucherie was so complete an hieroglyphic. Thus the 
Roman Abbey, the philosophical church, the Gothic art, 
the Saxon art, the heavy, round pillar, which reminds 
you of Gregory VII., the hermetic symbols by which 
Nicholas Flamel heralded Luther, papal unity and schism, 
Saint-Germain des Pres and Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie ; 
all are melted, combined, amalgamated in Notre-Dame. 
This central and generatrix church is a sort of chimera 
among the old churches of Paris ; it has the head of one, 
the limbs of another, the body of another, — something 
from each of them. 

I repeat, these hybrid structures are not the least interest- 
ing ones to the artist, the antiquary, and the historian. They 
show how far architecture is a primitive art, inasmuch as 
they demonstrate (what is also demonstrated by the Cyclo- 
pean remains, the pyramids of Egypt, and the gigantic 
Hindu pagodas), that the grandest productions of architec- 
ture are social more than individual works ; the offspring, 
rather, of nations in travail than the inspiration of men of 
genius; the deposit left by a people; the accumulation of 
ages ; the residuum of the successive evaporations of human 
society ; in short, a species of formation. Every wave of 
time superimposes its alluvion, every generation deposits 
its stratum upon the building, every individual lays his 
stone. Thus build the beavers ; thus, the bees ; and thus, 
men. The great symbol of architecture, Babel, is a bee- 
hive. 

Great buildings, like great mountains, are the work of 
centuries. Often the fashions in art change while they are 



THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME. 37 

being constructed, pendent opera interrupta ; they are con- 
tinued quietly according to the new art. This new art 
takes the edifice where it finds it, assimilates with it, 
develops it according to its own fancy, and completes it, if 
it is possible. The result is accomplished without disturb- 
ance, without effort, without reaction, following a natural 
and quiet law. It is a graft which occurs unexpectedly, 
a sap which circulates, a vegetation which returns. 
Certes, there is material for very large books and often a 
universal history of mankind, in those successive solder- 
ings of various styles at various heights upon the structure. 
The man, the artist, and the individual efface themselves in 
these vast anonymous masses ; human intelligence is con- 
centrated and summed up in them. Time is the architect j 
the nation is the mason. 

Notre Dame de Farts (Paris, 1831). 



THE KREMLIN. 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

THE Kremlin, always regarded as the Acropolis, the 
Holy Place, the Palladium, and the very heart of 
Russia, was formerly surrounded by a palisade of strong 
oaken stakes — similar to the defence which the Athenian 
citadel had at the time of the first invasion of the Persians. 
Dmitri-Donskoi substituted for this palisade crenellated 
walls, which, having become old and dilapidated, were 
rebuilt by Ivan HI. Ivan's wall remains to-day, but in 
many places there are restorations and repairs. Thick 
layers of plaster endeavour to hide the scars of time and 
the black traces of the great fire of i8i2 which was only 
able to lick this wall with its tongues of flame. The 
Kremlin somewhat resembles the Alhambra. Like the 
Moorish fortress, it stands on the top of a hill which it 
encloses with its wall flanked by towers : it contains royal 
dwellings, churches, and squares, and among the ancient 
buildings a modern Palace whose intrusion we regret as 
we do the Palace of Charles V. amid the delicate Sara- 
cenic architecture which it seems to crush with its weight. 
The tower of Ivan Veliki is not without resemblance to 
the tower of the Vela ; and from the Kremlin, as from the 



THE KREMLIN. 39 

Alhambra, a beautiful view is to be enjoyed, a panorama of 
enchantment which the fascinated eye will ever retain. 

It is strange that when seen from a distance the Kremlin 
is perhaps even more Oriental than the Alhambra itself 
whose massive reddish towers give no hint of the splendour 
within. Above the sloping and crenellated walls of the 
Kremlin and among the towers with their ornamented roofs, 
myriads of cupolas and globular bell-towers gleaming with 
metallic light seem to be rising and falling like bubbles of 
glittering gold in the strong blaze of light. The white 
wall seems to be a silver basket holding a bouquet of 
golden flowers, and we fancy that we are gazing upon one 
of those magical cities which the imagination of the Ara- 
bian story-tellers alone can build — an architectural crys- 
tallization of the Thousand and One Nights! And when 
Winter has sprinkled these strange dream-buildings with 
its powdered diamonds, we fancy ourselves transported into 
another planet, for nothing like this has ever met our gaze. 

We entered the Kremlin by the Spasskoi Gate which 
opens upon the Krasnaia. No entrance could be more 
romantic. It is cut through an enormous square tower, 
placed before a kind of porch. The tower has three di- 
minishing stories and is crowned with a spire resting upon 
open arches. The double-headed eagle, holding the globe 
in its claws, stands upon the sharp point of the spire, which, 
like the story it surmounts, is octagonal, ribbed, and gilded. 
Each face of the second story bears an enormous dial, so 
that the hour may be seen from every point of the compass. 
Add for effect some patches of snow laid on the jutting 
masonry like bold dashes of pigment, and you will have a 



40 THE KREMLIN. 

faint idea of the aspect presented by this queenly tower, as 
it springs upward in three jets above the denticulated wall 
which it breaks. . . . 

Issuing from the gate, we find ourselves in the large 
court of the Kremlin, in the midst of the most bewildering 
conglomeration of palaces, churches, and monasteries of 
which the imagination can dream. It conforms to no 
known style of architecture. It is not Greek, it is not 
Byzantine, it is not Gothic, it is not Saracen, it is not 
Chinese : it is Russian ; it is Muscovite. Never did archi- 
tecture more free, more original, more indifferent to rules, 
in a word, more romantic, materialize with such fantastic 
caprice. Sometimes it seems to resemble the freaks of 
frostwork. However, its leading characteristics are the 
cupolas and the golden-bulbed bell-towers, which seem to 
follow no lav/ and are conspicuous at the first glance. 

Below the large square where the principal buildings of 
the Kremlin are grouped and which forms the plateau of 
the hill, a circular road vi^inds about the irregularities of the 
ground and is bordered by ramparts flanked with towers of 
infinite variety : some are round, some square, some slender 
as minarets, some massive as bastions, and some with 
machicolated turrets, while others have retreating stories, 
vaulted roofs, sharply-cut sides, open-worked galleries, tiny 
cupolas, spires, scales, tracery, and all conceivable endings. 
The battlements, cut deeply through the wall and notched 
at the top like an arrow, are alternately plain and pierced 
with little barbicans. We will ignore the strategic value 
of this defence, but from a poetic standpoint it satisfies the 
imagination and gives the idea of a formidable citadel. 



THE KREMLIN. 4I 

Between the rampart and the platform bordered by a 
balustrade gardens extend, now powdered with snow, and a 
picturesque little church lifts its globular bell-towers. Be- 
yond, as far as the eye can reach, lies the immense and 
wonderful panorama of Moscow to which the crest of the 
saw-toothed wall forms an admirable foreground and 
frame for the distant perspective which no art could 
improve. . . . 

The Kremlin contains within its walls many churches, 
or cathedrals, as the Russians call them. Exactly like the 
Acropolis, it gathers around it on its narrow plateau a large 
number of temples. We will visit them one by one, but 
we will first pause at the tower of Ivan Veliki, an enor- 
mous octagon belfry with three retreating stories, upon the 
last of which there rises from a zone of ornamentation a 
round turret finished with a swelling dome, fire-gilt with 
ducat-gold, and surmounted by a Greek cross resting upon 
the conquered crescent. Upon each side of each story 
little arches are cut so that the brazen body of a bell may 
be seen. 

In this place there are thirty-three bells, among which is 
said to be the famous alarm-bell of Novgorod, whose rever- 
berations once called the people to the tumultuous delibera- 
tions in the public square. One of these bells weighs not less 
than a hundred and ninety-three tons, and is such a mon- 
ster of metal that beside it the great bell of Notre-Dame 
of which Quasimodo was so proud, would be nothing more 
than the tiny hand-bell used at Mass. . . . 

Let us enter one of the most ancient and characteristic 
cathedrals of the Kremlin, the first one built of stone, the 



42 THE KREMLIN. 

Cathedral of the Assumption {Ouspemkosahor^. It is not the 
original edifice founded by Ivan Kalita. That crumbled 
away after a century and a half of existence and was re- 
built by Ivan III. Notwithstanding its Byzantine style 
and archaic appearance, the present Cathedral dates only 
from the Fifteenth Century. One is astonished to learn that 
it is the work of Fioraventi, an architect of Bologna, whom 
the Russians called Aristotle because of his astounding 
knowledge. One would imagine it the work of some 
Greek architect from Constantinople whose head was filled 
with memories of Santa Sofia and models of Greco- 
Oriental architecture. The Assumption is almost square 
and its great walls soar with a surprising pride and strength. 
Four enormous pillars, large as towers and massive as the 
columns of the Palace of Karnak, support the central 
cupola, which rests on a flat roof in the Asiatic style, 
flanked by four similar cupolas. This simple arrangement 
produces a magnificent effect and these massive pillars con- 
tribute, without any heaviness, a fine balance and extraor- 
dinary stability to the Cathedral. 

The interior of the church is covered with Byzantine 
paintings on a gold background. The pillars themselves 
are embellished with figures arranged in zones as in the 
Egyptian temples and palaces. Nothing could be more 
strange than this decoration where thousands of figures 
surround you like a mute assemblage, ascending and de- 
scending the entire length of the walls, walking in files in 
Christian panathenaea, standing alone in poses of hieratic 
rigidity, bending over to the pendentives, and draping the 
temple with a human tapestry swarming with motionless 



THE KREMLIN. 43 

beings. A strange light, carefully disposed, contributes 
greatly to the disquieting and mysterious effect. In these 
ruddy and fawn-coloured shadows the tall savage saints 
of the Greek calendar assume a formidable semblance of 
life ; they look at you with fixed eyes and seem to threaten 
you with their hands outstretched for benediction. . . . The 
interior of St. Mark's at Venice, with its suggestion of a 
gilded cavern, gives the idea of the Assumption ; only the 
interior of the Muscovite church rises with one sweep 
towards the sky, while the vault of St. Mark's is strangely 
weighed down like a crypt. The iconostase^ a lofty wall of 
silver-gilt with five rows of figures, is like the facade of a 
golden palace, dazzling the eye with fabled magnificence. 
In the filigree framework of gold appear in tones of bistre 
the dark heads and hands of the Madonnas and saints. 
The rays of their aureoles are set with precious stones, 
which, as the light falls upon them, scintillate and blaze 
with celestial glory ; the images, objects of peculiar vene- 
ration, are adorned with breastplates of precious stones, 
necklaces, and bracelets, starred with diamonds, sapphires, 
rubies, emeralds, amethysts, pearls, and turquoises ; the 
madness of religious extravagance can go no further. 

It is in the Cathedral of the Assumption that the coro- 
nation of the Czar takes place. The platform for this 
occasion is erected between the four pillars which support 
the cupola and faces the ico7tostase. 

The tombs of the Metropolitans of Moscow are placed 
in rows along the sides of the walls. They are oblong : as 
they loom up in the shadows, they make us think of trunks 
packed for the great voyage of eternity. . . . 



44 THE KREMLIN. 

At the side of the new palace and very near these 
churches a strange building is seen, of no known style of 
architecture, neither Asiatic nor Tartar, and which for a 
secular building is much what Vassili-Blagennoi is for 
a religious edifice, — the perfectly realized chimasra of a 
sumptuous, barbaric, and fantastic imagination. It was 
built under Ivan III. by the architect Aleviso. Above its 
roof several towers, capped with gold and containing within 
them chapels and oratories, spring up with a graceful and 
picturesque irregularity. An outside staircase, from the top 
of which the Czar shows himself to the people after his 
coronation, gives access to the building and produces by its 
ornamented projection a unique architectural effect. It is to 
Moscow what the Giants' Stairway is to Venice. It is one 
of the curiosities of the Kremlin. In Russia it is known 
as the Red Stairway [Krasnoi-Kriltosi). The interior of the 
Palace, the residence of the ancient Czars, defies descrip- 
tion ; one would say that its chambers and passages have 
been excavated according to no determined plan in some 
curious block of stone, for they are so strangely entangled, 
so winding and complicated, and so constantly changing 
their level and direction that they seem to have been 
ordered at the caprice of an extravagant fancy. We walk 
through them as in a dream, sometimes stopped by a grille 
which opens mysteriously, sometimes forced to follow a 
narrow dark passage in which our shoulders almost touch 
both walls, sometimes having no other path than the 
toothed ledge of a cornice from which the copper plates of 
the roofs and the globular belfries are visible, constantly 
ascending, descending without knowing where we are, see- 



THE KREMLIN. 45 

ing beyond us through the golden trellises the gleam of a 
lamp flashing back from the golden filigree-work of the 
shrines, and emerging after this intramural journey into a 
hall with a rich and riotous wildness of ornamentation, at 
the end of which we are surprised at not seeing the Grand 
Kniaz of Tartary seated cross-legged upon his carpet of 
black felt. 

Such for example is the hall called the Golden Chamber, 
which occupies the entire Granovitaia Palata (the Facet 
Palace), so called doubtless on account of its exterior being 
cut in diamond facets. The Granovitaia Palata adjoins the 
old palace of the Czars. The golden vaults of this hall 
rest upon a central pillar by means of surbased arches from 
which thick bars of elliptical gilded iron go across from one 
arc to another to prevent their spreading. Several paintings 
here and there make sombre spots upon the burnished gold 
splendour of the background. 

Upon the string-courses of the arches legends are written 
in old Sclavonic letters — magnificent characters which lend 
themselves with as much effect for ornamentation as the 
Cufic letters on Arabian buildings. Richer, more myste- 
rious, and yet more brilliant decorations than these of the 
Golden Chamber cannot be imagined. A romantic person 
would like to see a Shakespearian play acted here. 

Certain vaulted halls of the old Palace are so low that a 
man who is a little above the average height cannot stand 
upright in them. It is here, in an atmosphere overcharged 
with heat, that the women, lounging on cushions in Orien- 
tal style, spend the hours of the long Russian winter in gaz- 
ing through the little windows at the snow sparkling on the 



46 THE KREMLIN. 

golden cupolas and the ravens whirling in great circles 
around the bell-towers. 

These apartments with their motley wall-decorations of 
palms, foliage, and flowers, recalling the patterns of Cash- 
mere, make us imagine these to be Asiatic harems trans- 
ported to the polar frosts. The true Muscovite taste, 
perverted later by a badly-understood imitation of Western 
art, appears here in all its primitive originality and intensely 
barbaric flavour. 

I have frequently observed that the progress of civilization 
seems to deprive nations of the true sense of architecture 
and decoration. The ancient edifices of the Kremlin prove 
once again how true is this assertion, which appears para- 
doxical at first. An inexhaustible fantasy presides over the 
decoration of these mysterious rooms where the gold, the 
green, the blue, and the red mingle with a rare happiness 
and produce the most charming eff^ects. This architecture, 
without the least regard for symmetry, rises like a honey- 
comb of soap-bubbles blown upon a plate. Each little cell 
takes its place adjoining its neighbour, arranging its own 
angles and facets until the whole glitters with colours dia- 
pered with iris. This childish and bizarre comparison will 
give you a better idea than anything else of the aggregation 
of these palaces, so fantastic, yet so real. 

It is in this style that we wish they had built the new 
Palace, an immense building in good modern taste and 
which would have a beauty elsewhere, but none whatever in 
the centre of the old Kremlin. The classic architecture 
with its long cold lines seems more wearisome and solemn 
here among these palaces with their strange forms, their 



THE KREMLIN. 4/ 

gaudy colours, and this throng of churches of Oriental style 
darting towards the sky a golden forest of cupolas, domes, 
pyramidal spires, and bulbous bell-towers. 

When looking at this Muscovite architecture you could 
easily believe yourself in some chimerical city of Asia, 
fancying the cathedrals mosques, and the bell-towers 
minarets, if it were not for the sober facade of the new 
Palace which leads you back to the unpoetic Occident and 
its unpoetic civilization : a sad thing for a romantic bar- 
barian of the present day. We enter the new Palace by 
a stairway of monumental size closed at the top by a 
magnificent grille of polished iron which is opened to 
allow the visitor to pass. We find ourselves under the large 
vault of a domed hall where sentinels are perpetually on 
guard.: four effigies clothed from head to foot in antique 
and curious Sclavonic armour. These knights have a 
noble air; they are surprisingly life-like; we could easily 
believe that hearts are beating beneath their coats of mail. 
Mediaeval armour disposed in this way always gives me an 
involuntary shiver. It so faithfully suggests the external 
form of a man who has vanished forever. 

From this rotunda lead two galleries which contain 
priceless riches : the treasure of the Caliph Haroun-al- 
Raschid, the wells of Aboul-Kasem, and the Green Vaults 
of Dresden united could not show such an accumulation 
of marvels, and here historic association is added to the 
material value. Here, sparkling, gleaming, and sportively 
flashing their prismatic light, are diamonds, sapphires, 
rubies, and emeralds — all the precious stones which 
Nature has hidden in the depths of her mines — in as 



48 THE KREMLIN. 

much profusion as if they were mere glass. They glitter 
like constellations in crowns, they flash in points of light 
from the ends of sceptres, they fall like sparkling rain- 
drops upon the Imperial insignias and form arabesques 
and cyphers until they nearly hide the gold in which they 
are set. The eye is dazzled and the mind can hardly 
calculate the sums that represent such magnificence. 

Voyage en i?ajj?V (Paris, 1866). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 

THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN. 

LET us go immediately to the Cathedral — the deepen- 
ing tones of whose tenor bell seem to hurry us on 
to the spot. Gentle reader, on no account visit this stu- 
pendous edifice — this mountain of stone — for the first 
time from the Stonegate (Street) which brings you in front 
of the south transept. Shun it — as the shock might be 
distressing ; but, for want of a better approach, wend your 
steps round by Little Blake Street, and, at its termina- 
tion, swerve gently to the left, and place yourself full in 
view of the West Front. Its freshness, its grandeur, its 
boldness and the numerous yet existing proofs of its ancient 
richness and variety, will peradventure make you breath- 
less for some three seconds. If it should strike you that 
there is a want of the subdued and mellow tone of antiquit)', 
such as we left behind at Lincoln, you must remember 
that nearly all this front has undergone a recent scraping 
and repairing in the very best possible taste — under the 
auspices of the late Dean Markham, who may be said to 
have loved this Cathedral with a holy love. What has 
been done, under his auspices, is admirable ; and a pattern 
for all future similar doings. 

4 



50 THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 

Look at those towers — to the right and left of you. 
How airy, how elegant, what gossamer-like lightness, and 
yet of what stability ! It is the decorative style of architec- 
ture, in the Fourteenth Century, at which you are now 
gazing with such untiring admiration. Be pleased to pass 
on (still outside) to the left, and take the whole range of 
its northern side, including the Chapter-House. Look 
well that your position be far enough out — between the 
house of the residing prebendary and the deanery — and 
then, giving rein to your fancy, gaze, rejoice, and revel 
in every expression of admiration and delight ! — for it has 
no equal : at least, not in Germany and France, including 
Normandy. What light and shade ! — as I have seen it, 
both beneath the sun and moon, on my first visit to the 
house of the prebendal residentiary — and how lofty, mas- 
sive, and magnificent the Nave ! You catch the Chapter- 
House and the extreme termination of the choir, connecting 
one end of the Cathedral with the other, at the same 
moment — comprising an extent of some 550 feet! You 
are lost in astonishment, almost as much at the conception, 
as at the completion of such a building. 

Still you are disappointed with the central Tower, or 
Lantern ; the work, in great part, of Walter Skirlaw, the 
celebrated Bishop of Durham, — a name that reflects honour 
upon everything connected with it. Perhaps the upper 
part only of this tower was of his planning — towards the 
end of the Fourteenth Century. It is sadly disproportionate 
with such a building, and should be lifted up one hundred 
feet at the least. . . . 

After several experiments, I am of the opinion that you 



THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 5 1 

should enter the interior at the spot where it is usually 
entered ; and which, from the thousand pilgrim-feet that 
annually visit the spot, may account for the comparatively 
worn state of the pavement ; — I mean the South Transept. 
Let us enter alone, or with the many. Straight before 
you, at the extremity of the opposite or northern transept, 
your eyes sparkle with delight on a view of the stained- 
glass lancet windows. How delicate — how rich — how 
chaste — how unrivalled ! All the colours seem to be 
intertwined, in delicate fibres, like Mechlin lace. There 
is no glare : but the tone of the whole is perfectly bewitch- 
ing. You move on. A light streams from above. It is 
from the Lantern, or interior summit of the Great Tower, 
upon which you are gazing. Your soul is lifted up with 
your eyes : and if the diapason harmonies of the organ are 
let loose, and the sweet and soft voices of the choristers 
unite in the Twelfth Mass of Mozart — you instinctively 
clasp your hands together and exclaim, " This must be 
Heaven ! " 

Descend again to earth. Look at those clustered and 
colossal bases, upon which the stupendous tower is raised. 
They seem as an Atlas that for some five minutes would 
sustain the world. Gentle visitor, I see you breathless, 
and starting back. It is the Nave with its " storied win- 
dows richly dight," that transports you ; so lofty, so wide, 
so simple, so truly grand ! The secret of this extraor- 
dinary effect appears to be this. The pointed arches that 
separate the nave from the side aisles, are at once spacious 
and destitute of all obtruding ornaments ; so that you 
catch very much of the side aisles with the nave ; and on 



52 THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 

the left, or south aisle, you see some of the largest win- 
dows in the kingdom, with their original stained glass^ a 
rare and fortunate result — from the fanatical destruction 
of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries ; and for which 
you must laud the memory of General Lord Fairfax, 
Cromwell's son-in-law : who showed an especial tender- 
ness towards this Cathedral. 

<' Breathe a prayer for his soul and pass on " 
to the great window at the extremity of the nave. To my 
eye the whole of this window wants simplicity and gran- 
deur of effect. Even its outside is too unsubstantial and 
playful in the tracery, for my notion of congruity with so 
immense a Cathedral. The stained glass is decidedly 
second-rate. The colour of the whole interior is admir- 
able and worthy of imitation. 

But where is The Choir, that wonder of the world? — 
" Yet more wondrous grown " from its phoenix-like 
revival from an almost all devouring flame ? ^ You must 
retrace your steps - — approach the grand screen — throw- 
ing your eye across the continued roof of the nave ; and, 
gently drawing a red curtain aside, immediately under the 
organ, you cannot fail to be ravished with the most mar- 
vellous sight before you. Its vastness, its unspeakable and 

1 I scarcely know how to trust myself with the mention of that 
most appalling, unprecedented, act of a one-third madman and two- 
thirds rogue — Jonathan Martin by name — w^ho set fire to the choir 
of York Minster : a fire which was almost miraculously stopt in its 
progress towards the destruction of the entire Cathedral. This had 
been a result which Martin would have rejoiced to have seen effected. 
This horrid deed, at the very thought of which the heart sickens, took 
place on the 2d of February, 1829. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 53 

indescribable breadth, grandeur, minuteness, and variety of 
detail and finish — the clustering stalls, the stupendous 
organ, the altar, backed by a stone Gothic screen, with 
the interstices filled with plate-glass — the huge outspread- 
ing eastern window behind, with its bespangled stained- 
glass, describing two hundred scriptural subjects — all that 
you gaze upon, and all that you feel is so much out of 
everyday experience, that you scarcely credit the scene to 
be of this world. To add to the effect, I once saw the 
vast area of this choir filled and warmed by the devotion 
of a sabbath afternoon. Sitting under the precentor's 
stall, I looked up its almost interminable pavement where 
knees were bending, responses articulated, and the organ's 
tremendous peal echoing from its utmost extremity. 
Above the sunbeams were streaming through the che- 
quered stained glass — and it was altogether a scene of 
which the recollection is almost naturally borne with one 
to the grave. . . . 

This Cathedral boasts of two transepts, but the second 
is of very diminutive dimensions : indeed, scarcely amount- 
ing to the designation of the term. But these windows 
are most splendidly adorned with ancient stained glass. 
They quickly arrest the attention of the antiquary ; whose 
bosom swells, and whose eyes sparkle with delight, as he 
surveys their enormous height and richness. That on the 
southern side has a sort of mosaic work or dove-tailed 
character, which defies adequate description — and is an 
admirable avant-propos to the Chapter House : — the 
Chapter House! — that glory of the Cathedral — that 
wonder of the world ! . . . 



54 THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 

Doubtless this Chapter House is a very repertory of all 
that is curious and grotesque, and yet tasteful, and of most 
marvellous achievement. You may carouse within it for 
a month — but it must be in the hottest month of the 
year ; and when you are tired of the " cool tankard," you 
may feast upon the pages of Britton and Halfpenny. . . . 
But the "world of wonders" exhibited in the shape of 
grotesque and capricious ornaments within this " House," 
is responded to by ornaments to the full as fanciful and 
extravagant within the Nave and Choir. What an imagi- 
nation seems to have been let loose in the designer en- 
gaged ! Look at what is before you ! Those frisky old 
gentlemen are sculptured at the terminating point, as cor- 
bels, of the arches on the roof of the nave: and it is curious 
that, in the bottom corbel, the figure to the left is a sort of 
lampoon, or libellous representation of the clergy : the 
bands and curled hair are decisive upon this point. . . . 
When I pace and repace the pavement of this stupendous 
edifice — when I meditate within this almost unearthly 
House of God — when I think of much of its departed 
wealth and splendour,^ as well as of its present durability and 

1 I gather the following from the abridged English version (1693) 
of Dugdale^s Mo?iasticon as quoted by Drake. Where is even the 
Protestant bosom that does not heave heavily as It reads it .!■ " To 
this Cathedral did belong abundance of jewels, vessels of gold and 
silver, and other ornaments 5 rich vestments and books, — amongst 
which were ten mitres of great value, and one small mitre set with 
stones for the < Boy Bishop.'' One silver and gilt pastoral staff, many 
pastoral rings, amongst which one for the bishop of the boys. Chal- 
ices, viols, pots, basons, candlesticks, thuribles, holy-water pots, 
crosses of silver — one of which weighed eight pounds, six ounces. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF YORK. 55 

grandeur — a spirit within me seems to say, that such an 
achievement of human skill and human glory should perish 
only with the crumbling fragments of a perishing world. 
Altogether it looks as if it were built for the day of 
doom. 

" A Bibliographical, Antiquarian, and Picturesque Tour of the 
Northern Counties of England and in Scotland'''' (London, 1838). 

Images of gold and silver ; relicts in cases extremely rich ; great 
bowls of silver ; an unicorn's horn ; a table of silver and gilt, with the 
image of the Virgin enamelled thereon, weighing nine pounds, eight 
ounces, and a half. Several Gospellaries and Epistolaries, richly 
adorned with silver, gold, and precious stones. Jewels, affixed to 
shrines and tombs, of an almost inestimable value. Altar cloths and 
hangings, very rich ; copes of tissue, damask, and velvet, white, red, 
blue, green, black, and purple. Besides this, there was a great treas- 
ure, deposited in the common chest in gold chains, collars of the Order 
of the Garter, with large sums of old gold and silver." 



THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 

PIERRE LOTI. 

I AM enchanted to-day by the spell of Islam, by the 
newly-risen sun, by the Spring which warms the air. 

Moreover, we will direct our steps this morning towards 
the holy spot of the Arabs, towards the Mosque of Omar, 
accounted marvellous and honoured throughout the world. 
— Jerusalem, city sacred to Christians and Jews, is also, 
after Mecca, the most sacred Mohammedan city. — The 

French consul-general and Father S , a Dominican, 

celebrated for his Biblical erudition, gladly accompanied 
us, and a janizary of the consulate preceded us, without 
whom even the approaches of the Mosque would have 
been forbidden. 

We walked along the narrow streets, gloomy notwith- 
standing the sunlight, and between the old windowless 
walls, made of the debris of all epochs of history and into 
which Hebraic stones and Roman marbles are fitted here 
and there. As we advanced towards the sacred quarter 
everything became more ruined, more devastated, more 
dead, — infinite desolation, which even surrounded the 
Mosque, the entrances to which are guarded by Turkish 
sentinels who prohibit passage to Christians. 



THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 57 

Thanks to the janizary, we clear this zone of fanatics, 
and then, by a series of httle dilapidated doors, we pass 
into a gigantic court, a kind of melancholy desert where 
the grass pushes up between the stones as it does in a 
meadow where no human foot ever treads : — this is 
Haram es Sherif (The. Sacred Enclosure). In the centre, 
and very far from us, there rises a solitary and surprising 
edifice, all blue, but of a blue so exquisite and rare that 
it seems to be some old enchanted palace made of tur- 
quoise; this is the Mosque of Omar, the marvel of all 
Islam. 

How wild and magnificent is the solitude that the 
Arabs have succeeded in preserving around their Mosque 
of blue ! 

On each of its sides, which are at least five hundred 
metres long, this square is hemmed in with sombre build- 
ings, shapeless by reason of decay, incomprehensible by 
reason of restorations and changes made at various epochs 
of ancient history: at the base are Cyclopean rocks, rem- 
nants of the walls of Solomon ; above, the debris of Herod's 
citadel, the debris of the pratoriu7n where Pontius Pilate 
was enthroned and whence Christ departed for Calvary ; 
then the Saracens, and, after them, the Crusaders, left 
everything in a confused heap, and, finally, the Saracens, 
again having become the masters of this spot, burned or 
walled-up the windows, raised their minarets at hap-hazard, 
and placed at the top of the buildings the points of their 
sharp battlements. 

Time, the leveller, has thrown over everything a uni- 
form colour of old reddish terra-cotta, and given to all the 



58 THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 

buildings the same vegetation, the same decay, the same 
dust. This bewildering chaos of bits and fragments, for- 
midable in its hoary age, speaks the nothingness of man, 
the decay of civilizations and races, and bestows infinite 
sadness upon this little desert beyond which rises in its 
solitude the beautiful blue palace surmounted by its cupola 
and crescent, — the marvellous and incomparable Mosque 
of Omar. 

As we advance through this desert broken by large 
white stones and grass, giving it the feeling of a cemetery, 
the casing of the blue Mosque becomes more defined : we 
seem to see on its walls jewels of many colours and bril- 
liantly cut, equally divided into pale turquoise and a deep 
laph-la%ull^ with a little yellow, a little white, a little green, 
and a little black, soberly combined in very delicate 
arabesques. 

Among some cypresses, nearly sapless, several very an- 
cient and dying olives, a series of secondary edicules more 
numerous towards the centre of the great court, lead to 
the Mosque, the great wonder of the square. Dotted 
about are some little marble ynihrahs^ some light arches, 
some little triumphal arches, and a kiosk with columns, 
which also seems covered v/ith blue jewels. Yet here in 
this immense square, which centuries have rendered so 
desert-like, so melancholy, and so forsaken. Spring has 
placed amid the stones her garlands of daisies, buttercups, 
and wild peonies. 

Coming nearer, we perceive that these elegant and frail 
little Saracen buildings are composed of the d'ehris of Chris- 
tian churches and antique temples ; the columns and the 




^jM!»^?«gra4'=^- 



^^ 




THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 59 

marble friezes have all vanished, torn away from a chapel 
of the Crusaders, from a basilica of the Greek Emperors, 
from a temple of Venus, or from a synagogue. If the 
general arrangement is Arab, calm and stamped with the 
grace of Aladdin's palace, the detail is full of instruction 
regarding the frailty of religions and empires ; this detail 
perpetuates the memory of great exterminating wars, of 
horrible sacks, of days when blood ran here like water and 
when the wholesale slaughtering " did not end until the 
soldiers were weary with killing." 

In all this conglomeration only that blue kiosk, neigh- 
bour of the blue Mosque, can tell its companion of 
Jerusalem's terrible past. Its double row of marble 
columns is like a museum of debris from all countries ; we 
see Greek, Roman, Byzantine, or Hebraic capitals, others 
of an undetermined age, of a wild style almost unknown. 

Now the tranquillity of death has settled over all ; the 
remnants of so many various sanctuaries at enmity have 
been grouped, in honour of the God of Islam, in an un- 
expected harmony, and this will perhaps continue until 
they crumble into dust. When one recalls the troublous 
past it is strange to find this silence, this desolation, and 
this supreme peace in the centre of a court whose white 
stones are invaded by the daisies and weeds of the field. 

Let us enter this mysterious mosque surrounded by 
death and the desert. At first it seems dark as night : we 
have a bewildering sense of fairy-like splendour. A very 
faint light penetrates the panes, which are famed through- 
out the Orient and which fill the row of little windows 
above ; we fancy that the light is passing through flowers 



60 THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 

and arabesques of precious stones regularly arranged, and 
this is the illusion intended by the inimitable glass-workers 
of old. Gradually, as our eyes grow accustomed to the 
dim light, the walls, arches, and vaults seem to be covered 
with some rich embroidered fabric of raised mother-of- 
pearl and gold on a foundation of green. Perhaps it is 
an old brocade of flowers and leaves, perhaps precious 
leather from Cordova, or perhaps something even more 
beautiful and rare than either, which we shall recognize 
presently when our eyes have recovered from the blinding 
effect of the sun on the flags outside and have adjusted 
themselves to the dusk of this most holy sanctuary. The 
mosque, octagonal in form, is supported within by two 
concentric rows of pillars, the first octagonal, and the 
second circular, sustaining the magnificent dome. 

Each column with its gilded capital is composed of a 
different and priceless material : one of violet marble veined 
with white ; another of red porphyry ; another of that 
marble, for centuries lost, known as antique verde. The 
entire base of the walls, as high as the line where the 
green and gold embroideries begin, is cased with marble. 
Great slabs cut lengthwise are arranged in symmetrical 
designs like those produced in cabinet-work by inlaid 
woods. 

The little windows placed close to the dome, from which 
altitude falls the reflected light as though from jewels, are 
all of different colours and designs ; one is shaped like 
a daisy and composed of ruby glass ; another of delicate 
arabesques of sapphire mingled with the yellow of the 
topaz J and a third of emerald sprinkled with rose. 



THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 6l 

What makes the beauty of these, as of all Arabian 
windows, is that the various colours are not separated, like 
ours, by lines of lead, but the framework of the window 
is a plate of thick stucco pierced with an infinite number 
of little holes, ever changing with the light ; the effect is 
always some new and beautiful design ; the pieces of 
transparent blue, yellow, rose, or green, are inserted deep 
in the thickness of the setting so that they seem to be 
surrounded by a kind of nimbus caused by the reflected 
light along the sides of the thick apertures, and the result 
is a deep and soft glow over all, and through this light 
gleam and sparkle the pearl, and precious stones. 

Now we begin to distinguish what we supposed was 
tapestry over the masonry : it consists of marvellous 
mosaics covering everything and simulating brocades and 
embroideries, but far more beautiful and durable than any 
woven tissue, for its lustre and diaper-work have been 
preserved through long centuries because it is formed of 
almost imperishable matter, — myriads of fragments of 
marble, with mother-of-pearl and gold. Throughout the 
whole, green and gold predominate. The designs are 
numbers of strange vases holding stiff and symmetrical 
bouquets : conventional foliage of a bygone period, dream- 
flowers fashioned in ancient days. Above these are antique 
vine-branches composed of an infinite variety of green 
marbles, stems of archaic rigidity bearing grapes of gold 
and clusters of pearl. Here and there, to break the 
monotony of the green, twin-petals of great, red flowers, 
shaded with minute fragments of pink marble and por- 
phyry, are thrown upon a back-ground of gold. 



62 THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 

In the glow of colour streaming through the windows 
all the splendours of Oriental tales seem to be revealed, 
vibrating through the tvv^ilight and silence of this sanctuary 
which is always open and surrounded by the spacious court- 
yard in which we stroll alone. Little birds, quite at home 
in the mosque, fly in and out of the open, bronze doors, 
and alight on the porphyry cornices and on the pearl and 
gold, and are benevolently regarded by the two or three 
venerable and white-bearded officials who are praying in 
the shadowy recesses. On the marble pavement are spread 
several antique Persian and Turkish rugs of the most 
delicate, faded hues. 

On entering this circular mosque its vast centre is in- 
visible, as it is surrounded by a double screen. The first is 
of wood, finely carved in the style of the Mozarabians ; 
the second, of Gothic iron-work, placed there by the 
Crusaders v/hen they used it temporarily as a Christian 
fane. Mounting some marble steps, our eyes at last rest 
upon this jealously-guarded interior. 

Considering all the surrounding splendour, we now ex- 
pect even more marvellous riches to be revealed, but we 
are awed by an apparition of quite a different nature, — a 
vague and gloomy shape seems to have its abode amid the 
shadows of this gorgeous precinct ; a mass, as yet unde- 
fined, seems to surge through the semi-darkness like a 
great, black, solidified wave. 

This is the summit of Mount Moriah, sacred ahke to 
the Israelites, Mussulmans, and Christians ; this is the 
threshing-floor of Oman the Jebusite, where King David 
saw the Destroying Angel holding in his hand the destroy- 



THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 63 

ing sv/ord stretched out over Jerusalem (2 Samuel xxiv. 
16; I Chronicles xxi. 15), 

Here David built an altar of burnt-offering and here 
his son Solomon raised the Temple, levelling the surround- 
ings at great cost, but preserving the irregularities of this 
peak because the foot of the angel had touched it. "Then 
Solomon began to build the house of the Lord at Jerusalem 
in Mount Moriah, where the Lord appeared unto David 
his father, in the place that David had prepared in the 
threshing-floor of Oman the Jebusite " (2 Chronicles iii. i). 

We know through what scenes of inconceivable magnifi- 
cence and desolating fury this mountain of Moriah passed 
during the ages. The Temple that crowned it, razed by 
Nebuchadnezzar, rebuilt on the return from the captivity 
in Babylon, and again destroyed under Antonius IV., was 
again rebuilt by Herod : it saw Jesus pass by ; His voice 
was heard upon its summit. 

Therefore, each of those mighty edifices which cost the 
ransom of an empire, and whose almost superhuman foun- 
dations are still found buried in the earth, confound the 
imagination of us moderns. After the destruction of Jeru- 
salem by Titus, a Temple of Jupiter was erected under 
Hadrian's reign, replacing the Temple of the Saviour. 
Later, the early Christians, to spite the Jews, kept this 
sacred peak covered with debris and dirt, and it was the 
Caliph Omar who piously caused it to be cleared as soon as 
he had conquered Palestine ; and finally, his successor, the 
Caliph Abd-el-Melek, about the year 690, enclosed it with 
the lovely Mosque that is still standing. 

With the exception of the dome, restored during the 



64 THE MOSQUE OF OMAR. 

Twelfth and Fourteenth Centuries, the Crusaders found it 
in its present condition, already ancient and bearing the 
same relation to them that the Gothic cathedrals do to us, 
for it was clothed with the same fadeless embroideries of 
gold and marble and with Its glistening brocades which are 
almost imperishable. Converting it into a church, they 
placed their marble altar in the centre on David's rock. 
On the fall of the Franks, Saladin, after long purifications 
by sprinklings of rose-water, restored it to the Faith of 
Allah, 

Inscriptions of gold in old Cufic characters above the 
friezes speak of Christ after the Koran, and their deep wis- 
dom is such as to sow disquietude in Christian souls : " O 
ye who have received the scriptures, exceed not the just 
bounds of your religion. Verily Christ Jesus is the son of 
Mary, the apostle of God, and his Word which he con- 
veyed unto Mary, Believe then in God and in his Apostle, 
but say not there is a Trinity, forbear this, it will be better 
for you. God is but one. It is not meet that God should 
have a son. When He decreeth a thing He only saith unto 
it: 'Be'; and it is." (Sura iv. 19.) 

A dread Past, crushing to our modern puerility, is evoked 
by this black rock, this dead and mummified mountain 
peak, on which the dew of Heaven never falls, which never 
produces a plant, nor a spray of moss, but which lies like 
the Pharaohs in their sarcophagi, and which, after two 
thousand years of troubles, has now been sheltered for 
thirteen centuries beneath the brooding of this golden dome 
and these marvellous walls raised for it alone. 

Jh'usalem (Paris, 1895). 




THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 

THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

OTWITHSTANDING that Burgos was for so 
long a time the first city of Castile, it is not very 
Gothic in appearance; with the exception of a street where 
there are several windows and doors of the Renaissance, or- 
namented with coats of arms and their supporters, the houses 
do not date further back than the beginning of the Seven- 
teenth Century, and are exceedingly commonplace ; they are 
old, but not antique. But Burgos has her Cathedral, which 
is one of the most beautiful in the world ; unfortunately, 
like all the Gothic cathedrals, it is shut in by a number of 
ignoble buildings which prevent you from appreciating the 
structure as a whole and grasping the mass at a glance. 
The principal porch looks upon a square, in the centre of 
which is a beautiful fountain surmounted by a delightful 
statue of Christ, the target for all the ruffians of the town 
who have no better pastime than throwing stones at its 
sculptures. The magnificent porch, like an intricate and 
flowered embroidery of lace, has been scraped and rubbed 
as far as the first frieze by I don't know what Italian prel- 
ates, — some important amateurs in architecture, who were 
great admirers of plain walls and ornamentation in good taste^ 
and who, having pity for those poor barbarian architects 

5 



66 THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 

who would not follow the Corinthian order and had no 
appreciation of Attic grace and the triangular fronton, 
wished to arrange the Cathedral in the Roman style. 
Many people are still of this opinion in Spain, where the 
so-called Messidor style flourishes in all its purity, and, ex- 
actly as was the case in France before the Romantic School 
brought the Middle Ages into favour again and caused the 
beauty and meaning of the cathedrals to be understood, pre- 
fer all kinds of abominable edifices, pierced with innumer- 
able windows and ornamented with Psestumian columns, to 
the most florid and richly-carved Gothic cathedrals. Two 
sharp spires cut in saw-teeth and open-worked, as if pierced 
with a punch, festooned, embroidered, and carved down to 
the last details like the bezel of a ring, spring towards God 
with all the ardour of faith and transport of a firm convic- 
tion. Our unbelieving campaniles would not dare to ven- 
ture into the air with only stone-lace and ribs as delicate as 
gossamer to support them. Another tower, sculptured with 
an unheard-of wealth, but not so high, marks the spot 
where the transept intersects the nave, and completes the 
magnificence of the outline. A multitude of statues of 
saints, archangels, kings, and monks animates the whole 
mass of architecture, and this stone population is so numer- 
ous, so crowded, and so swarming, that surely it must 
exceed the population of flesh and blood inhabiting the 
town. . . . 

The choir, which contains the stalls, called silleria^ is en- 
closed by iron grilles of the most wonderful repousse work j 
the pavement, according to the Spanish custom, is covered 
with immense mats of spartium, and each stall has, more- 



THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 6/ 

over, its own little mat of dry grass, or rushes. On rais- 
ing your head you see a kind of dome, formed by the 
interior of the tower of which we have already spoken ; 
it is a gulf of sculptures, arabesques, statues, little columns, 
ribs, lancets, and pendentives — enough to give you a ver- 
tigo. If you looked at it for two years, you would not 
see it all. It is as crowded together as the leaves of a 
cabbage, and fenestrated like a fish-slice ; it is as gigantic 
as a pyramid and as delicate as a woman's ear-ring, and 
you cannot understand how such a piece of filigree-work 
has remained suspended in the air for so many centuries. 
What kind of men v/ere those who made these marvellous 
buildings, whose splendours not even fairy palaces can sur- 
pass ? Is the race extinct ? And we, who are always 
boasting of our civilization, are we not decrepit barbarians 
in comparison ? A deep sadness always oppresses my 
heart when I visit one of these stupendous edifices of the 
Past ; I am seized with utter discouragement and my one 
desire is to steal into some corner, to place a stone beneath 
my head, and, in the immobility of contemplation, to await 
death, which is immobility itself. What is the use of 
working ? Why should we tire ourselves ? The most 
tremendous human effort will never produce anything 
equal to this. Ah well ! even the names of these divine 
artists are forgotten, and to find any trace of them you 
must ransack the dusty archives in the convent ! . . . 

The sacristy is surrounded by a panelled wainscot, form- 
ing closets with flowered and festooned columns in rich 
taste ; above the wainscot is a row of Venetian mirrors 
whose use I do not understand; certainly they must only 



68 THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 

be for ornament as they are too high for any one to see 
himself in them. Above the mirrors are arranged in 
chronological order, the oldest nearest the ceiling, the 
portraits of all the bishops of Burgos, from the first to 
the one now occupying the episcopal chair. These por- 
traits, although they are oil, look more like pastels, or dis- 
temper, which is due to the fact that in Spain pictures are 
never varnished, and, for this lack of precaution, the dam.p- 
ness has destroyed many masterpieces. Although these 
portraits are, for the most part, imposing, they are hung 
too high for one to judge of the merit of the execution. 
There is an enormous buffet in the centre of the room 
and enormous baskets of spartium, in which the church 
ornaments and sacred vessels are kept. Under two glass 
cases are preserved as curiosities two coral trees, whose 
branches are much less complicated than the least arabesque 
in the Cathedral. The door is embellished with the arms 
of Burgos in relief, sprinkled with little crosses, gules. 

Juan Cuchiller's room, which we next visited, is not 
at all remarkable in the way of architecture, and we were 
hastening to leave it when we were asked to raise our eyes 
and look at a very curious object. This was a great chest 
fastened to the wall by iron clamps. It would be hard to 
imagine a box more patched, more worm-eaten, or more 
dilapidated. It is surely the oldest chest in the world; 
an inscription in black-letter — Cofre del C'ld — gives, at 
once, as you will readily believe, an enormous importance 
to these four boards of rotting wood. If we may believe 
the old chronicle, this chest is precisely that of the famous 
Ruy Diaz de Bivar, better known under the name of the 



THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 69 

Cid Campeador, who, once lacking money, exactly like 
a simple author, notwithstanding he was a hero, had this 
filled with sand and stones and carried to the house of an 
honest Jewish usurer who lent money on this security, the 
Cid Campeador forbidding him to open the mysterious 
coffer until he had reimbursed the borrowed sum. . . . 

The need of the real, no matter how revolting, is a 
characteristic of Spanish Art : idealism and convention- 
ality are not in the genius of these people completely defi- 
cient in aesthetic feeling. Sculpture does not suffice for 
them ; they must have their statues coloured, and their 
madonnas painted and dressed in real clothes. Never, 
according to their taste, can material illusion be carried 
too far, and this terrible love of realism makes them often 
overstep the boundaries which separate sculpture from 
wax-works. 

The celebrated Christ, so revered at Burgos that no 
one is allowed to see it unless the candles are lighted, is 
a striking example of this strange taste : it is neither of 
stone, nor painted wood, it is made of human skin (so the 
monks say), stuffed with much art and care. The hair is 
real hair, the eyes have eye-lashes, the thorns of the crov^^n 
are real thorns, and no detail has been forgotten. Nothing 
can be more lugubrious and disquieting than this attenu- 
ated, crucified phantom with its hum.an appearance and 
deathlike stillness ; the faded and brownish-yellow skin is 
streaked with long streams of blood, so well imitated that 
they seem to trickle. It requires no great effort of imagina- 
tion to give credence to the legend that it bleeds every 
Friday. In the place of folded, or flying drapery, the Christ 



70 THE CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS. 

of Burgos wears a white skirt embroidered in gold, which 
falls from the waist to the knees ; this costume produces 
a peculiar effect, especially to us who are not accustomed 
to see our Lord attired thus. At the foot of the Cross 
three ostrich eggs are placed, a symbolical ornament of 
whose meaning I am ignorant, unless they allude to the 
Trinity, the principle and germ of everything. 

We went out of the Cathedral dazzled, overwhelmed, 
and satiated with chefs (Tceuvre^ powerless to admire any 
longer, and only with great difficulty we threw a glance 
upon the arch of Fernan Gonzalez, an attempt in classical 
architecture made by Philip of Burgundy at the beginning 
of the Renaissance. 

Voyage en Espagne (Paris, new ed., 1865). 



THE PYRAMIDS. 

GEORG EBERS. 

EARLY in the morning our carriage, drawn by fast 
horses, rattles across the Nile on the iron bridge 
which joins Cairo to the beautiful island of Gezirah. The 
latter, with its castle and the western tributary of the river 
which ripples by it, are soon left behind. Beneath the 
shade of acacias and sycamore-trees runs the well-kept 
and level highway. On our left lie the castle and the 
high-walled, vice-regal gardens of Gizeh ; the dewy green 
fields, intersected by canals, rejoice the eye, and a tender 
blue mist veils the west. The air has that clearness and 
aromatic freshness which is only offered by an Egyptian 
winter's morning. For a moment the enveloping curtain 
of cloud lifts from the horizon, and we see the prodigious 
Pyramids standing before us with their sharp triangles, 
and the misty curtain falls ; to the right and left we 
sometimes see buffaloes grazing, sometimes flocks of 
silvery herons, sometimes a solitary pelican within gun- 
shot of our carriage ; then half-naked peasants at their 
daily labour and pleasing villages some distance from the 
road. Two large, whitish eagles now soar into the air. 
The eye follows their flight, and, in glancing upwards, 
perceives how the mist has gradually disappeared, how 



72 THE PYRAMIDS. 

brightly dazzling is the blue of the sky, and how the sun 
is at last giving out the full splendour of his rays. . . . 
We stand before the largest of these works of man, 
which, as we know, the ancients glorified as " wonders 
of the world." It is unnecessary to describe their form 
for everybody knov/s the stereometrical figure to which 
their name has been given, and this is not the place to 
print a numerical estimate of their mass. Only by a 
comparison with other structures present in our memory 
can any idea of their immensity be realized ; and, con- 
sequently, it may be said here that while St. Peter's in 
Rome is 131 metres high (430 feet), the Great Pyramid 
(of Cheops), with its restored apex would be 147 metres 
(482 feet), and is thus 16 metres (52 feet) taller; therefore, 
if the Pyramid of Cheops were hollow, the great Cathedral 
of Rome could be placed within it like a clock under 
a protecting glass-shade. Neither St. Stephen's Cathedral 
in Vienna, nor the Munster of Strasburg reaches the height 
of the highest Pyramid ; but the new tov/ers of the 
Cathedral of Cologne exceed it. In one respect no other 
building in the world can be compared with the Pyramiids, 
and that is in regard to the mass and weight of the materials 
used in their construction. If the tomb of Cheops were 
razed, a wall could be built with its stones all around the 
frontiers of France. If you fire a good pistol from the 
top of the great Pyramid into the air, the ball falls half- 
way down its side. By such comparisons they who have 
not visited Egypt may form an idea of the dimensions of 
these amazing structures ; he who stands on the sandy 
ground and raises his eyes to the summit, needs no such 
aids. 



THE PYRAMIDS. 73 

We get out of the carriage on the north side of the 
Pyramid of Cheops. In the sharply-defined triangular 
shadows women are squatted, oft'ering oranges and various 
eatables for sale ; donkey-boys are waiting with their grey 
animals ; and travellers are resting after having accom- 
plished the ascent. This work now lies before us, and 
if we were willing to shirk it, there would be many attacks 
on our indolence, for from the moment we stepped from 
our carriage, we have been closely followed by a ragged, 
brown, and sinewy crowd, vehemently offering their ser- 
vices. They call themselves Bedouin with great pride, but 
they have nothing in comm.on with the true sons of the 
desert except their faults. Nevertheless, it is not only 
prudent but necessary to accept their assistance, although 
the way up can scarcely be mistaken. 

We begin the ascent at a place where the outside stone 
casing of the Pyramid has fallen away, leaving the terrace- 
like blocks of the interior exposed ; but the steps are un- 
equal and sometimes of considerable height ; some of them 
are half as high as a man. Two or three lads accompany 
me; one jumps up first with his bare feet, holds my hands, 
and drags me after him ; another follows the climber, 
props his back, and thrusts and pushes him forwards ; while 
a third grabs his side beneath his arm, and lifts him. Thus, 
one half-scrambles up him.self and is half-dragged up, while 
the nimble lads give the climber no rest, if he wants to 
stop for breath or to wipe the drops of moisture from his 
brow. These importunate beggars never cease shouting 
and clamouring for baksheesh^ and are so persistently annoy- 
ing that they seem to want us to forget the gratitude we 
owe them for their aid. 



74 THE PYRAMIDS. 

At length we reach our destination. The point of the 
Pyramid has long since crumbled away, and we stand on 
a tolerably spacious platform. When our gasping breath 
and throbbing pulses have partially recovered and we have 
paid and got rid of the Bedouin ^'who torment us to exchange 
our money for sham antiquities, we look down upon the 
vast landscape, and the longer we gaze and absorb this dis- 
tant view, the more significant and the more incomparable 
it appears. Fertility and sterility, life and death, lie no- 
where in such close mingling as here. There in the east 
flows the broad Nile covered with lateen sails, and like 
emerald tapestry are the fields and meadows, gardens and 
groves of palm-trees, spread along its shores. The villages, 
hidden under the trees, look like birds' nests among green 
boughs, and at the foot of the Mokattam mountain, which 
is now shining with golden light and which at sunset will 
reflect the rosy and violet afterglow, rise the thousand 
mosques of the city of the Caliphs, overtopped by the 
citadel and by those slenderest of all minarets which grace 
the Mausoleum of Mohammed Ali, an unmistakable feat- 
ture of Cairo, visible from the farthest distance. Gardens 
and trees encircle the city like a garland around some 
lovely head. Nowhere is there to be found a more beau- 
tiful picture of prosperity, fertility, and life. The silver 
threads of the canals crossing the entire luxuriant valley 
appear to be some shining fluid. Unclouded is the sky, and 
yet light shadows fall across the fields. These are flocks 
of birds which find plenty of food and drink here. How 
vast is the bounty of God ! How beautiful and rich is the 
earth ! 

The Bedouin have left us. We stand alone on the sum- 



THE PYRAMIDS. 75 

mit. All is still. Not a sound reaches us from far or 
near. Turning now to the west, the eye can see nothing 
but pyramids and tombs, rocks and sand in countless num- 
ber. Not a blade, not a bush can find nutriment in this 
sterile ground. Yellow, grey, and dull brown cover every- 
thing, far and wide, in unbroken monotony. 

Only here and there a white object is shining amidst the 
dust. It is the dried skeleton of some dead animal. Silent 
and void, the enemy to everything that has life — the 
desert — stretches before us. Where is its end? In days, 
weeks, months the traveller would never reach it, even if 
he escaped alive from the choking sand. Here, if any- 
where. Death is king ; here, where the Egyptians saw the 
sun vanish every day behind the wall of the Libyan moun- 
tains, begins a world which bears the same comparison to 
the fruitful lands of the East as a corpse does to a living 
man happy in the battle and joy of life. A more silent 
burial-place than this desert exists nowhere on this earth ; 
and so tomb after tomb was erected here, and, as if to pre- 
serve the secret of the dead, the desert has enveloped tombs 
and bodies with its veil of sand. Here the terrors of 
infinity are displayed. Here at the gate of the future life, 
where eternity begins, man's work seems to have eluded 
the common destiny of earthly things and to have partaken 
of immortality. 

" Time mocks all things, but the Pyramids mock Time " 
is an Arabian proverb which has been repeated thousands 
of times. 

Cicerone durch das alte und neue Mgypten (Stuttgart und Leipzig, 
1886). 



SAINT PETER'S. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

"HEN we were fairly off again, we began, in a perfect 
fever, to strain our eyes for Rome ; and when, 
after another mile or two, the Eternal City appeared, at 
length, in the distance, it looked like — I am half afraid to 
write the word — like LONDON ! ! ! There it lay, under 
a thick cloud, with innumerable towers, and steeples, and 
roofs of houses, rising up into the sky, and, high above them 
all, one Dome. I swear, that keenly as I felt the seeming 
absurdity of the comparison, it was so like London, at that 
distance, that if you could have shown it me in a glass, I 
should have taken it for nothing else. 

We entered the Eternal City at about four o'clock in 
the afternoon, on the thirtieth of January, by the Porta 
del Popolo, and came immediately — it was a dark, muddy 
day, and there had been heavy rain — on the skirts of the 
Carnival. We did not, then, know that we were only 
looking at the fag-end of the masks, who were driving 
slowly round and round the Piazza, until they could find a 
promising opportunity for falling into the stream of car- 
riages, and getting, in good time, into the thick of the 
festivity ; and coming among them so abruptly, all travel- 



SAINT PETER'S. 77 

Stained and weary, was not coming very well prepared to 
enjoy the scene. . . . 

Immediately on going out next day we hurried ofF to St. 
Peter's. It looked immense in the distance but distinctly 
and decidedly small, by comparison, on a near approach. 
The beauty of the Piazza in which it stands, with its clus- 
ters of exquisite columns and its gushing fountains — so 
fresh, so broad, and free and beautiful — nothing can exag- 
gerate. The first burst of the interior, in all its expansive 
majesty and glory: and most of all, the looking up into the 
Dome : is a sensation never to be forgotten. But, there 
were preparations for a Festa ; the pillars of stately marble 
were swathed in some impertinent frippery of red and 
yellow ; the altar, and entrance to the subterranean chapel : 
which is before it, in the centre of the church : were like a 
goldsmith's shop, or one of the opening scenes in a very 
lavish pantomime. And though I had as high a sense of 
the beauty of the building (I hope) as it is possible to enter- 
tain, I felt no very strong emotion. I have been infinitely 
more affected in many English cathedrals when the organ 
has been playing, and in many English country churches 
when the congregation have been singing. I had a much 
greater sense of mystery and wonder in the Cathedral of 
San Mark, at Venice. . . . 

On Sunday the Pope assisted in the performance of 
High Mass at St. Peter's. The effect of the Cathedral on 
my mind, on that second visit, was exactly what it was 
at first, and what it remains after many visits. It is not 
religiously impressive or affecting. It is an immense 
edifice, with no one point for the mind to rest upon ; and 



78 SAINT PETER'S. 

it tires itself with wandering round and round. The very 
purpose of the place is not expressed in anything you see 
there, unless you examine its details — and all examination 
of details is incompatible with the place itself. It might 
be a Pantheon, or a Senate House, or a great architectural 
trophy, having no other object than an architectural tri- 
umph. There is a black statue of St. Peter, to be sure, 
under a red canopy ; which is larger than life, and which 
is constantly having its great toe kissed by good Catholics. 
You cannot help seeing that : it is so very prominent and 
popular. But it does not heighten the effect of the temple 
as a work of art ; and it is not expressive — to me, at 
least — of its high purpose. 

A large space behind the altar was fitted up with boxes, 
shaped like those at the Italian Opera in England, but in 
their decoration much more gaudy. In the centre of the 
kind of theatre thus railed off was a canopied dais with 
the Pope's chair upon it. The pavement was covered 
with a carpet of the brightest green j and what with this 
green, and the intolerable reds and crimsons, and gold 
borders of the hangings, the whole concern looked like 
a stupendous Bonbon. On either side of the altar was 
a large box for lady strangers. These were filled with 
ladies in black dresses and black veils. The gentlemen 
of the Pope's guard, in red coats, leather breeches, and 
jack-boots, guarded all this reserved space, with drawn 
swords that were very flashy in every sense ; and, from 
the altar all down the nave, a broad lane was kept clear 
by the Pope's Swiss Guard, who wear a quaint striped 
surcoat, and striped tight legs, and carry halberds like 




V 



SAINT PETER'S. 79 

those which are usually shouldered by those theatrical 
supernumeraries, who never can get ofF the stage fast 
enough, and who may be generally observed to linger in 
the enemy's camp after the open country, held by the 
opposite forces, has been split up the middle by a convul- 
sion of Nature. 

I got upon the border of the green carpet, in company 
with a great many other gentlemen attired in black (no 
other passport is necessary), and stood there, at my ease, 
during the performance of mass. The singers were in 
a crib of wire-work (like a large meat-safe or bird-cage) 
in one corner; and sung most atrociously. All about the 
green carpet there was a slowly-moving crowd of people : 
talking to each other : staring at the Pope through eye- 
glasses : defrauding one another, in moments of partial 
curiosity, out of precarious seats on the bases of pillars : 
and grinning hideously at the ladies. Dotted here and 
there were little knots of friars (Francescani, or Cappuc- 
cini, in their coarse brown dresses and peaked hoods), 
making a strange contrast to the gaudy ecclesiastics of 
higher degree, and having their humility gratified to the 
utmost, by being shouldered about, and elbowed right and 
left, on all sides. Some of these had muddy sandals and 
umbrellas, and stained garments : having trudged in from 
the country. The faces of the greater part were as coarse 
and heavy as their dress ; their dogged, stupid, monotonous 
stare at all the glory and splendour having something in it 
half miserable, and half ridiculous. 

Upon the green carpet itself, and gathered round the 
altar, was a perfect army of cardinals and priests, in red. 



8o SAINT PETER'S. 

gold, purple, violet, white, and fine linen. Stragglers 
from these v/ent to and fro among the crowd, conversing 
two and two, or giving and receiving introductions, and 
exchanging salutations; other functionaries in black gowns, 
and other functionaries in court dresses, were similarly 
engaged. In the midst of all these, and stealthy Jesuits 
creeping in and out, and the extreme restlessness of the 
Youth of England, who were perpetually wandering about, 
some few steady persons in black cassocks, v^'ho had knelt 
down with their faces to the wall, and were poring over 
their missals, became, unintentionally, a sort of human 
man-traps, and with their own devout legs tripped up 
other people's by the dozen. 

There was a great pile of candles lying dov/n on the 
floor near me, which a very old man in a rusty black gown 
with an open-work tippet, like a summer ornament for 
a fire-place in tissue paper, made himself very busy in 
dispensing to all the ecclesiastics : one apiece. They 
loitered about with these for some time, under their arms 
like walking-sticks, or in their hands like truncheons. At 
a certain period of the ceremony, however, each carried 
his candle up to the Pope, laid it across his two knees to 
be blessed, took it back again, and filed off. This was 
done in a very attenuated procession, as you may suppose, 
and occupied a long time. Not because it takes long to 
bless a candle through and through, but because there 
were so many candles to be blessed. At last they were 
all blessed, and then they were all lighted ; and then the 
Pope was taken up, chair and all, and carried round the 
church. . . . 



SAINT PETER'S. 8 1 

On Easter Sunday, as well as on the preceding Thurs- 
day, the Pope bestows his benediction on the people from 
the balcony in front of St. Peter's. This Easter Sunday 
was a day so bright and blue : so cloudless, balmy, won- 
derfully bright: that all the previous bad weather van- 
ished from the recollection in a moment. I had seen the 
Thursday's benediction dropping damply on some hundreds 
of umbrellas, but there was not a sparkle then in all the 
hundred fountains of Rome — such fountains as they are ! 
— and, on this Sunday morning, they were running dia- 
monds. The miles of miserable streets through which we 
drove (compelled to a certain course by the Pope's dra- 
goons : the Roman police on such occasions) were so full 
of colour, that nothing in them was capable of wearing 
a faded aspect. The common people came out in their 
gayest dresses; the richer people in their smartest vehicles; 
Cardinals rattled to the church of the Poor Fisherman 
in their state carriages ; shabby magnificence flaunted its 
threadbare liveries and tarnished cocked-hats in the sun ; 
and every coach in Rome v/as put in requisition for the 
Great Piazza of St. Peter's. 

One hundred and fifty thousand people were there at 
least ! Yet there was ample room. How many carriages 
were there I don't know ; yet there was room for them 
too, and to spare. The great steps of the church were 
densely crowded. There were many of the Contadini, 
from Albano (who delight in red), in that part of the 
square, and the mingling of bright colours in the crowd 
was beautiful. Below the steps the troops were ranged. 
In the magnificent proportions of the place, they looked 



82 SAINT PETER'S. 

like a bed of flowers. Sulky Romans, lively peasants 
from the neighbouring country, groups of pilgrims from 
distant parts of Italy, sight-seeing foreigners of all nations, 
made a murmur in the clear air, like so many insects ; 
and high above them all, plashing and bubbling, and mak- 
ing rainbow colours in the light, the two delicious foun- 
tains welled and tumbled bountifully. 

A kind of bright carpet was hung over the front of the 
balcony ; and the sides of the great window were be- 
decked with crimson drapery. An awning was stretched, 
too, over the top, to screen the old man from the hot rays 
of the sun. As noon approached, all eyes were turned up 
to this window. In due time the chair was seen approach- 
ing to the front, with the gigantic fans of peacock's feathers 
close behind. The doll within it (for the balcony is very 
high) then rose up, and stretched out its tiny arms, while 
all the male spectators in the square uncovered, and some, 
but not by any means the greater part, kneeled down. 
The guns upon the ramparts of the Castle of St. Angelo 
proclaimed, next moment, that the benediction was given ; 
drums beat; trumpets sounded; arms clashed; and the 
great mass below, suddenly breaking into smaller heaps, 
and scattering here and there in rills, was stirred like 
party-coloured sand. . . . 

But, when the night came on, without a cloud to dim the 
full moon, what a sight it was to see the Great Square full 
once more, and the whole church, from the cross to the 
ground, lighted with innumerable lanterns, tracing out the 
architecture, and winking and shining all round the colon- 
nade of the Piazza. And what a sense of exultation, joy. 



SAINT PETER'S. 83 

delight, it was, when the great bell struck half past seven 
— on the instant — to behold one bright red mass of fire 
soar gallantly from the top of the cupola to the extremest 
summit of the cross, and, the moment it leaped into its 
place, become the signal of a bursting out of countless 
lights, as great, and red, and blazing as itself, from every 
part of the gigantic church ; so that every cornice, capital, 
and smallest ornament of stone expressed itself in fire : and 
the black, solid groundwork of the enormous dome seemed 
to grow transparent as an egg-shell ! 

A train of gunpowder, an electric chain — nothing could 
be fired more suddenly and swiftly than this second illu- 
mination : and when we had got away, and gone upon 
a distant height, and looked toward it two hours after- 
ward, there it still stood, shining and glittering in the calm 
night like a jewel ! Not a line of its proportions wanting ; 
not an angle blunted ; not an atom of its radiance lost. 

Pictures from Italy (London, 1845). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 

VICTOR HUGO. 

I ARRIVED in Nancy Sunday evening at seven 
o'clock; at eight the diligence started again. Was 
I more fatigued ? Was the road better ? The fact is I 
propped myself on the braces of the conveyance and slept. 
Thus I arrived in Phalsbourg. 

I woke up about four o'clock in the morning. A cool 
breeze blew upon my face and the carriage was going down 
the incline at a gallop, for we were descending the famous 
Saverne. 

It was one of the most beautiful impressions of my life. 
The rain had ceased, the mists had been blov/n to the four 
winds, and the crescent moon slipped rapidly through the 
clouds and sailed freely through the azure space like a 
barque on a little lake. A breeze which came from the 
Rhine made the trees, which bordered the road, tremble. 
From time to time they waved aside and permitted me to 
see an indistinct and frightful abyss : in the foreground, a 
forest beneath whic'h the m.ountain disappeared ; below, 
immense plains, meruidering streams glittering like streaks 
of lightning ; and in the background a dark, indistinct, 
and heavy line — the Black Forest — a magical panorama 



THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 85 

beheld by moonlight. Such incomplete visions have, per- 
haps, more distinction than any others. They are dreams 
which one can look upon and feel. I knew that my eyes 
rested upon France, Germany, and Switzerland, Strasburg 
with its spire, the Black Forest with its mountains, and the 
Rhine with its windings ; I searched for everything and I 
saw nothing. I have never experienced a more extraor- 
dinary sensation. Add to that the hour, the journey, the 
horses dashing down the precipice, the violent noise of the 
wheels, the rattling of the windows, the frequent passage 
through dark woods, the breath of the morning upon the 
mountains, a gentle murmur heard through the valleys, and 
the beauty of the sky, and you will understand what I felt. 
Day is amazing in this valley ; night is fascinating. 

The descent took a quarter of an hour. Half an hour 
later came the twilight of morning; at my left the dawn 
quickened the lower sky, a group of white houses with 
black roofs became visible on the summit of a hill, the blue 
of day began to overflow the horizon, several peasants 
passed by going to their vines, a clear, cold, and violet light 
struggled with the ashy glimmer of the moon, the constella- 
tions paled, two of the Pleiades were lost to sight, the three 
horses in our chariot descended rapidly towards their stable 
with its blue doors, it was cold and I was frozen, for it had 
become necessary to open the windows. A moment after- 
wards the sun rose, and the first thing it showed to me was 
the village notary shaving at a broken mirror under a red 
calico curtain. 

A league further on the peasants became more pictur- 
esque and the waggons magnificent ; I counted in one thir- 



S6 THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 

teen mules harnessed far apart by long chains. You felt 
you were approaching Strasburg, the old German city. 

Galloping furiously, we traversed Wasselonne, a long 
narrow trench of houses strangled in the last gorge of the 
Vosges by the side of Strasburg. There I caught a 
glimpse of one facade of the Cathedral, surmounted by 
three round and pointed towers in juxtaposition, which 
the movement of the diligence brought before my vision 
brusquely and then took it away, jolting it about as if it 
were a scene in the theatre. 

Suddenly, at a turn in the road the mist lifted and I saw 
the Miinster. It was six o'clock in the morning. The 
enormous Cathedral, which is the highest building that the 
hand of man has made since the great Pyramid, was clearly 
defined against a background of dark mountains whose 
forms were magnificent and whose valleys were flooded 
with sunshine. The work of God made for man and the 
work of man made for God, the mountain and the Cathe- 
dral contesting for grandeur. I have never seen anything 
more imposing. 

Yesterday I visited the Cathedral. The Miinster is 
truly a marvel. The doors of the church are beautiful, par- 
ticularly the Roman porch, the facade contains some superb 
figures on horseback, the rose-window is beautifully cut, 
and the entire face of the Cathedral is a poem, wisely com- 
posed. But the real triumph of the Cathedral is the spire. 
It is a true tiara of stone with its crown and its cross. It 
is a prodigy of grandeur and delicacy. I have seen 
Chartres, and I have seen Antwerp, but Strasburg pleases 
me best. 




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THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 8/ 

The church has never been finished. The apse, 
miserably mutilated, has been restored according to that 
imbecile, the Cardinal de R.ohan, of the necklace fame. 
It is hideous. The window they have selected is like 
a modern carpet. It is ignoble. The other windows, 
v/ith the exception of some added panes, are beautiful, 
notably the great rose-window. All the church is shame- 
fully whitewashed ; some of the sculptures have been 
restored with some little taste. This Cathedral has been 
affected by all styles. The pulpit is a little construction of 
the Fifteenth Century, of florid Gothic of a design and style 
that are ravishing. Unfortunately they have gilded it in 
the most stupid manner. The baptismal font is of the 
same period and is restored in a superior manner. It is a 
vase surrounded by foliage in sculpture, the most marvellous 
in the world. In a dark chapel at the side there are two 
tombs. One, of a bishop of the time of Louis V., is of 
that formidable character which Gothic architecture always 
expresses. The sepulchre is in two floors. The bishop, 
in pontifical robes and with his mitre on his head, is lying 
in his bed under a canopy ; he is sleeping. Above and on 
the foot of the bed in the shadow, you perceive an enorm.ous 
stone in which tv/o enormous iron rings are imbedded ; that 
is the lid of the tomb. You see nothing more. The 
architects of the Sixteenth Century showed you the corpse 
(you remember the tombs of Brou?); those of the Four- 
teenth concealed it : that is even more terrifying. Nothing 
could be more sinister than these two rings. . . . 

The tomb of which I have spoken is in the left arm 
of the cross. In the right arm there is a chapel, which 



88 THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 

scaffolding prevented me from seeing. At the side of this 
chapel runs a balustrade of the Fifteenth Century, leaning 
against a wall, A sculptured and painted figure leans 
against this balustrade and seems to be admiring a pillar 
surrounded by statues placed one over the other, which is 
directly opposite and which has a marvellous effect. Tra- 
dition says that this figure represents the first architect of 
the Miinster — Erwyn von Steinbach. . . . 

I did not see the famous astronomical clock, which is in 
the nave and which is a charming little building of the 
Sixteenth Century. They were restoring it and it was 
covered with a scaffolding of boards. 

After having seen the church, I made the ascent of the 
steeple. You know my taste for perpendicular trips. I 
was very careful not to miss the highest spire in the world. 
The Miinster of Strasburg is nearly five hundred feet high. 
It belongs to the family of spires which are open-worked 
stairways. 

It is delightful to wind about in that monstrous mass of 
stone, filled with air and light hollowed out like zjoujou de 
Dieppe^ a lantern as v/ell as a pyramid, which vibrates and 
palpitates with every breath of the wind. I mounted as 
far as the vertical stairs. As I went up I met a visitor 
who was descending, pale and trembling, and half-carried 
by the guide. There is, however, no danger. The danger 
begins where I stopped, where the spire, properly so-called, 
begins. Four open-worked spiral stairways, corresponding 
to the four vertical towers, unroll in an entanglement of 
delicate, slender, and beautifully-worked stone, supported 
by the spire, every angle of which it follows, winding until 



THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 89 

it reaches the crown at about thirty feet from the lantern 
surmounted by a cross which forms the summit of the 
bell-tower. The steps of these stairways are very steep 
and very narrow, and become narrower and narrower as 
you ascend, until there is barely ledge enough on which 
to place your foot. 

In this way you have to climb a hundred feet which 
brings you four hundred feet above the street. There are 
no hand-rails, or such slight ones that they are not worth 
speaking about. The entrance to this stairway is closed 
by an iron grille. They will not open this grille without 
a special permission from the Mayor of Strasburg, and 
nobody is allowed to ascend it unless accompanied by two 
workmen of the roof, who tie a rope around your body, 
the end of which they fasten, in proportion as you ascend, 
to the various iron bars which bind the mullions. Only a 
week ago three German women, a mother and her two 
daughters, made this ascent. Nobody but the workmen 
of the roof, who repair the bell-tower, are allowed to go 
beyond the lantern. Here there is not even a stairway, 
but only a simple iron ladder. 

From where I stopped the view was wonderful. Stras- 
burg lies at your feet, — the old town with its dentellated 
gables, and its large roofs encumbered with chimneys, and 
its towers and churches — as picturesque as any town of 
Flanders. The 111 and the Rhine, two lovely rivers, 
enliven this dark mass with their plashing waters, so clear 
and green. Beyond the walls, as far as the eye can reach, 
stretches an immense country richly wooded and dotted 
with villages. The Rhine, which flows within a league 



90 THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 

of the town, winds through the landscape. In walking 
around this bell-tower you see three chains of mountains — 
the ridges of the Black Forest on the north, the Vosges on 
the west, and the Alps in the centre. . . . 

The sun willingly makes a festival for those who are 
upon great heights. At the moment I reached the top of 
the Miinster, it suddenly scattered the clouds, with which 
the sky had been covered all day, and turned the smoke of 
the city and all the mists of the valley to rosy flames, while 
it showered a golden rain on Saverne, whose magnificent 
slope 1 saw twelve leagues towards the horizon, through 
the most resplendent haze. Behind me a large cloud 
dropped rain upon the Rhine ; the gentle hum of the town 
was brought to me by some pufFs of wind ; the bells 
echoed from a hundred villages ; some little red and white 
fleas, which were really a herd of cattle, grazed in 
the meadow to the right ; other little blue and red fleas, 
which were really gunners, performed field-exercise in the 
polygon to the left ; a black beetle, which was the dili- 
gence, crawled along the road to Metz; and to the north 
on the brow of the hill the castle of the Grand Duke of 
Baden sparkled in a flash of light like a precious stone. I 
went from one tower to another, looking by turns upon 
France, Switzerland, and Germany, all illuminated by the 
same ray of sunlight. 

Each tower looks upon a different country. 

Descending, I stopped for a few moments at one of the 
high doors of the tower-stairway. On either side of this 
door are the stone efligies of the two architects of the 
Miinster. These two great poets are represented as kneel- 



THE CATHEDRAL OF STRASBURG. 91 

ing and looking behind them upward as if they were lost 
in astonishment at the height of their work. I put myself 
in the same posture and remained thus for several minutes. 
At the platform they made me write my name in a book ; 
after which I went away. 

Le Rhin (Paris, 1842). 



THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 

GWENDOLIN TRENCH GASCOIGNE. 

iHE " Shway Dagohn " at Rangoon, or Golden 
Pagoda, is one of the most ancient and venerated 
shrines which exists, and it certainly should hold a high 
place among the beautiful and artistic monuments of the 
world, for it is exquisite in design and form. Its proportions 
and height are simply magnificent ; wide at the base, it 
shoots up 370 feet, tapering gradually away until crowned 
by its airy golden Htee, or umbrella-shaped roof. This 
delicate little structure is studded profusely with precious 
stones and hung round with scores of tiny gold and jewelled 
bells, which, when swung lightly by the soft breeze, give 
out the tenderest and most mystic of melodies. The Htee 
was the gift of King Mindohn-Min, and it is said to have 
cost the enormous sum of fifty thousand pounds. 

The great pagoda is believed by the faithful to have been 
erected in 588 B. C. ; but for many centuries previous to 
that date the spot where the pagoda now stands was held 
sacred, as the relics of three preceding Buddhas were dis- 
covered there when the two Taking brothers (the founders 
of the Great Pagoda) brought the eight holy hairs of Buddha 
to the Thehngoothara Hill, the spot where the pagoda now 
stands. Shway Yoe (Mr. Scott) says that it also possesses 



THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 93 

in the Tapanahteik, or relic chamber, of the pagoda the 
drinking cup of Kaukkathan, the "thengan," or robe, of 
Gawnagohng, and the " toungway," or staff, of Kathapah. 
It is therefore so holy that pilgrims visit this shrine from far 
countries, such as Siam, and even the Corea. The height 
of the pagoda w^as originally only tv\^enty-seven feet, but it 
has attained its present proportions by being constantly 
encased in bricks. It is a marvellously striking structure, 
raising up its delicate, glittering head from among a wondrous 
company of profusely carved shrines and small temples, 
v^hose colour and cunning workmanship make fit attendants 
to this stupendous monument. 

It is always a delight to one's eyes to gaze upon its 
glittering spire, always a fairy study of artistic enchantment ; 
but perhaps if it has a moment when it seems clothed with 
peculiar and almost ethereal, mystic attraction, it is in the 
early morning light, when the air has been bathed by dew- 
drops and is of crystal clearness, and when that scorching 
Eastern sun has only just begun to send forth his burn- 
ing rays. I would say go and gaze on the pagoda at the 
awakening hour, standing there on the last spur of the Pegu 
Hills, and framed by a luxuriant tropical bower of foliage. 
The light scintillates and glistens like a myriad of diamonds 
upon its golden surface, and the dreamy beauty of its 
glorious personality seems to strike one dumb with deep, 
unspoken reverence and admiration. 

Nestling on one side of it are a number of Pohn-gyee 
Kyoung (monasteries) and rest-houses for pilgrims. All 
these are quaint, carved, and gilded edifices from which 
you see endless yellow-robed monks issuing. The monas- 



94 THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 

teries situated at the foot of the great pagoda seem peculiarly 
harmonious, as if they would seek protection and shelter 
beneath the wing of their great mother church. 

The pagoda itself is approached on four sides by long 
flights of steps, but the southern is the principal entrance 
and that most frequented. At the base of this stand two 
gigantic lions made of brick and plastered over, and also 
decorated with coloured paint ; their office is to guard the 
sacred place from nats (evil spirits) and demons, the fear of 
which seems ever to haunt the Burman's mind and be a 
perpetual and endless torment to him. From this entrance 
the steps of the pagoda rise up and are enclosed by a series 
of beautifully carved teak roofs, supported by wood and 
masonry pillars. There are several quaint frescoes of 
Buddha and saints depicted upon the ceiling of these roofs, 
but the steps which they cover are very rugged and irregular. 
It is, indeed, a pilgrimage to ascend them, although the 
foreigner is allowed to retain his shoes. The faithful, of 
course, leave theirs at the foot of the steps. 

The entrance to the pagoda inspires one with a maze of 
conflicting emotions as one stands before it ; joy, sorrow, 
pity, wonder, admiration follow so quickly upon each other 
that they mingle into an indescribable sense of bewilderment. 
The first sight of the entrance is gorgeous, full of Eastern 
colour and charm ; and then sorrow and horror fill one's 
heart, as one's eyes fall suddenly upon the rows of lepers 
who line the way to the holy place. Each is a terrible, 
gruesome sight, a mass of ghastly corruption and disease, 
and each holds out with maimed, distorted hands a little tin 
vessel for your alms. 



--^^ MM 




THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 95 

Why should Providence allow so awful an affliction as 
leprosy to fall upon His creatures ? Could any crime, 
however heinous, be foul enough for such a punishment ? 
These are the thoughts that flit through your brain; and 
then, as you pass on, wonder takes their place at the quaint 
beauty of the edifice, and lastly intense and wild admiration 
takes entire possession of you, and all is forgotten in the 
glorious nearness of the great Golden Pagoda. 

On either side of the rugged steps there are rows of most 
picturesque little stalls, at which are sold endless offerings 
to be made to Buddha — flowers of every shade and hue, 
fruit, glowing bunches of yellow plantains and pepia, candles, 
wondrous little paper devices and flags, and, lastly, the gold 
leaf, which the faithful delight to place upon the beloved 
pagoda. It is looked upon as a great act of merit to expend 
money in thus decorating the much loved and venerated 
shrine. . . . 

As you mount slowly up the steep uneven steps of the 
pagoda, turn for a moment and glance back at the scene. 
It is a pagoda feast, and the place is crowded with the 
faithful from all parts, who have come from far and near to 
present offerings and perform their religious observances. 
It is an entrancing picture, a marvel of colour and pictur- 
esqueness — see, the stalls are laid out with their brightest 
wares, and the crowd is becoming greater every moment. 
Look at that group of laughing girls, they have donned their 
most brilliant tamehns, and dainty shawls, and the flowers 
in their hair are arranged with infinite coquettishness ; 
behind them are coming a dazzling company of young men 
in pasohs of every indescribable shade ; perchance they are 



96 THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 

the lovers of the girls whom they are following so eagerly, 
and they are bearing fruit and flowers to present to Buddha. 
Beyond them again are some yellow-robed Pohn-gyees ; 
they are supposed to shade their eyes from looking upon 
women with their large lotus-shaped fans, but to-day they are 
gazing about them more than is permitted, and are casting 
covert glances of admiration on some of those dainty little 
maidens. Behind them again are a white-robed company, 
they are nuns, and their shroud-like garments flow around 
them in long graceful folds. Their hair is cut short, and 
they have not so joyous an expression upon their faces as 
the rest of the community, and they toil up the steep steps 
a trifle wearily. Behind them again are a little toddling 
group of children, with their little hands full of bright 
glowing flowers and fruits. 

Shall we follow in the crowd and see where the steps 
lead ? It is a wondrous study, the effects of light and 
shade ; look at that sunbeam glinting in through the roof 
and laying golden fingers on the Pohn-gyees' yellow robes, 
and turning the soft-hued fluttering silks into brilliant 
luminous spots of light. 

At last we have arrived at the summit! Let us pause 
and take breath morally and physically before walking 
round the great open-paved space in the centre of which 
rises the great and glorious pagoda. There it stands tow- 
ering up and up, as though it would fain touch the blue 
heaven; it is surrounded by a galaxy of smaller pagodas, 
which seem to be clustering lovingly near their great high 
priest ; around these again are large carved kneeling 
elephants, and deep urn-shaped vessels, which are placed 



THE SHWAY DAGOHN. 97 

there to receive the offerings of food brought to Buddha. 
The crows and the pariah dogs which haunt the place will 
soon demolish these devout offerings, and grow fat upon 
them as their appearance testifies ; but this, curiously, does 
not seem in the least to annoy the giver. He has no objec- 
tion to seeing a fat crow or a mangy dog gorging itself 
upon his offering, as the feeding of any animal is an act of 
merit, which is the one thing of importance to a Burman. 
The more acts of merit that he can accomplish in this life, 
the more rapid his incarnations will be in the next. 

There are draped about the small golden pagodas and 
round the base of the large one endless quaint pieces of 
woven silk , these are offerings from women, and must be 
completed in one night without a break. 

On the outer circle of this large paved space are a multi- 
tude of shrines, enclosing hundreds of images of Buddha. 
You behold Buddha standing, you behold him sitting, you 
behold him reclining ; you see him large, you see him 
small, you see him medium size ; you see him in brass, in 
wood, in stone, and in marble. Many of these statues are 
simply replicas of each other, but some differ slightly, though 
the cast of features is always the same, a placid, amiable, 
benign countenance, with very long lobes to the ears, which 
in Burmah are supposed to indicate the great truthfulness 
of the person who possesses them. Most of the images 
have suspended over them the royal white umbrella, which 
was one of the emblems of Burma, and only used in 
Thebaw's time to cover Buddha, the king, and the lord 
white elephant. 

Among Pagodas and Fair Ladies (London, 1896). 

7 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENA. 

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 

QUITTING the Palazzo, and threading narrow 
streets, paved with brick and overshadowed with 
huge empty palaces, we reach the highest of the 
three hills on which Siena stands, and see before us the 
Duomo. This church is the most purely Gothic of all 
Italian cathedrals designed by national architects. Together 
with that of Orvieto, it stands to show what the unassisted 
genius of the Italians could produce, when under the 
empire of mediaeval Christianity and before the advent of 
the neopagan spirit. It is built wholly of marble, and 
overlaid, inside and out, with florid ornaments of exquisite 
beauty. There are no flying buttresses, no pinnacles, no 
deep and fretted doorways, such as form the charm of 
French and English architecture ; but instead of this, the 
lines of party-coloured marbles, the scrolls and wreaths of 
foliage, the mosaics and the frescoes which meet the eye in 
every direction, satisfy our sense of variety, producing most 
agreeable combinations of blending hues and harmoniously 
connected forms. The chief fault which offends against 
our Northern taste is the predominance of horizontal lines, 
both in the construction of the facade, and also in the 
internal decoration. This single fact sufficiently proves 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENA. 99 

that the Italians had never seized the true idea of Gothic 
or aspiring architecture. But, allowing for this original 
defect, we feel that the Cathedral of Siena combines solem- 
nity and splendour to a degree almost unrivalled. Its dome 
is another pomt in which the instinct of Italian architects 
has led them to adhere to the genius of their ancestral art 
rather than to follow the principles of Gothic design. The 
dome is Etruscan and Roman, native to the soil, and only 
by a kind of violence adapted to the character of pointed 
architecture. Yet the builders of Siena have shown what a 
glorious element of beauty might have been added to our 
Northern cathedrals, had the idea of infinity which our 
ancestors expressed by long continuous lines, by complex- 
ities of interwoven aisles, and by multitudinous aspiring 
pinnacles, been carried out into vast spaces of aerial cupolas, 
completing and embracing and covering the whole like 
heaven. The Duomo, as it now stands, forms only part 
of a vast original design. On entering we are amazed to 
hear that this church, which looks so large, from the beauty 
of its proportions, the intricacy of its ornaments, and the 
interlacing of its columns, is but the transept of the old 
building lengthened a little, and surmounted by a cupola 
and campanile. Yet such is the fact. Soon after its com- 
mencement a plague swept over Italy, nearly depopulated 
Siena, and reduced the town to penuiy for want of men. 
The Cathedral, which, had it been accomplished, would 
have surpassed all Gothic churches south of the Alps, 
remained a ruin. A fragment of the nave still stands, 
enabling us to judge of its extent. The eastern wall joins 
what was to have been the transept, measuring the mighty 



lOO THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENA. 

space which would have been enclosed by marble vaults 
and columns delicately wrought. The sculpture on the 
eastern door shows with what magnificence the Sienese 
designed to ornament this portion of their temple ; while 
the southern facade rears itself aloft above the town, like 
those high arches which testify to the past splendour of 
Glastonbury Abbey ; but the sun streams through the 
broken windows, and the walls are encumbered v/ith hovels 
and stables and the refuse of surrounding streets. One 
most remarkable feature of the internal decoration is a line 
of heads of the Popes carried all round the church above the 
lower arches. Larger than life, white solemn faces, they 
lean, each from his separate niche, crowned with the triple 
tiara, and labelled with the name he bore. Their accumu- 
lated majesty brings the whole past history of the Church 
into the presence of its living members. A bishop walking 
up the nave of Siena must feel as a Roman felt among the 
waxen images of ancestors renowned in council or in war. 
Of course these portraits are imaginary for the most part; 
but the artists have contrived to vary their features and 
expression with great skill. 

Not less peculiar to Siena is the pavement of the Cathe- 
dral. It is inlaid with a kind of tarsia work in stone, not 
unlike that which Baron Triqueti used in his " Marmor 
Homericum " — less elaborately decorative, but even more 
artistic and subordinate to architectural effect than the 
baron's mosaic. Some of these compositions are as old as 
the cathedral ; others are the work of Beccafumi and his 
scholars. They represent, in the liberal spirit of mediaeval 
Christianity, the history of the Church before the Incarna- 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENA. lOI 

tion. Hermes Trismegistus and the Sibyls meet us at the 
doorway : in the body of the church we find the mighty 
deeds of the old Jewish heroes — of Moses and Sarnson 
and Joshua and Judith. Independently of the artistic 
beauty of the designs, of the skill with which men and 
horses are drawn in the most difficult attitudes, of the 
dignity of some single figures, and of the vigour and sim- 
plicity of the larger compositions, a special interest attaches 
to this pavement in connection with the twelfth canto of 
the " Purgatorio." Did Dante ever tread these stones and 
meditate upon their sculptured histories ? That is what we 
cannot say ; but we read how he journeyed through the 
plain of Purgatory with eyes intent upon its storied floor, 
how " morti i morti, e i vivi parean vivi," how he saw 
" Nimrod at the foot of his great work, confounded, gazing 
at the people who were proud with him." The strong and 
simple outlines of the pavement correspond to the few 
words of the poet. Bending over these pictures and trying 
to learn their lesson, with the thought of Dante in our 
mind, the tones of an organ, singularly sweet and mellow, 
fall upon our ears, and we remember how he heard the Te 
Deum sung within the gateway of repentance. 

Sketches in Italy and Greece (London, 1874). 



THE TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN. 

GRANT ALLEN. 

LOUVAIN is in a certain sense the mother city of 
Brussels. Standing on its own little navigable river, 
the Dyle, it was, till the end of the Fourteenth Century, 
the capital of the Counts and of the Duchy of Brabant. 
It had a large population of weavers, engaged in the cloth 
trade. Here, as elsewhere, the weavers formed the chief 
bulwark of freedom in the population. In 1378, however, 
after a popular rising, Duke Wenseslaus besieged and 
conquered the city ; and the tyrannical sway of the nobles, 
whom he re-introduced, aided by the rise of Ghent, or 
later, of Antwerp, drove away trade from the city. Many 
of the weavers emigrated to Holland and England, where 
they helped to establish the woollen industry. . , . 

As you emerge from the station, you come upon a small 
Place, adorned with a statue (by Geefs) of Sylvain van de 
Weyer, a revolutionary of 1830, and long Belgian minister 
to England. Take the long straight street up which the 
statue looks. This leads direct to the Grand' Place, the 
centre of the town, whence the chief streets radiate in 
every direction, the ground-plan recalling that of a Roman 
city. 




THE TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN. 



THE TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN. IO3 

The principal building in the Grand' Place is the Hotel 
de Ville, standing out with three sides visible from the 
Place, and probably the finest civic building in Belgium. 
It is of very florid late-Gothic architecture, between 1448 
and 1463. Begin first with the left facade, exhibiting 
three main storeys, with handsome Gothic windows. Above 
come a gallery, and then a gable-end, flanked by octagonal 
turrets, and bearing a similar turret on its summit. In 
this centre of the gable is a little projecting balcony of the 
kind so common on Belgic civic buildings. The archi- 
tecture of the niches and turrets is of very fine florid 
Gothic, in better taste than that at Ghent of nearly the 
same period. The statues which fill the niches are modern. 
Those of the first storey represent personages of impor- 
tance in the local history of the city ; those of the second, 
the various mediaeval guilds or trades ; those of the third, 
the Counts of Louvain and Dukes of Brabant of all ages. 
The bosses or corbels which support the statues, are 
carved with scriptural scenes in high relief. I give the 
subjects of a few (beginning Left) : the reader must 
decipher the remainder for himself. The Court of 
Heaven : The Fall of the Angels into the visible Jaws 
of Hell : Adam and Eve in the Garden : The Expul- 
sion from Paradise : The Death of Abel, with quaint 
rabbits escaping : The Drunkenness of Noah : Abraham 
and Lot : etc. 

The main facade has an entrance staircase, and two 
portals in the centre, above which are figures of St. Peter 
(Left) and Our Lady and Child (Right), the former in 
compliment to the patron of the church opposite. This 



104 "^^^ TOWN HALL OF LOUVAIN. 

facade has three storeys, decorated with Gothic windows, 
and capped by a gallery parapet, above which rises the 
high-pitched roof, broken by several quaint small windows. 
At either end are the turrets of the gable, with steps to 
ascend them. The rows of statues represent as before (in 
four tiers), persons of local distinction, mediseval guilds 
and the Princes who have ruled Brabant and Louvain. 
Here again the sculptures beneath the bosses should be 
closely inspected. Among the most conspicuous are the 
Golden Calf, the Institution of Sacrifices in the Taber- 
nacle, Balaam's Ass, Susannah and the Elders, etc. 

The gable-end to the Right, ill seen from the narrow 
street, resembles in its features the one opposite it, but 
this facade is even finer than the others. 

The best general view is obtained from the door of 
St. Pierre, or near either corner of the Place directly 
opposite. 

Cities of Belgium (London, 1897). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE. 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS. 

THE Cathedral of Seville is isolated in the centre of 
a large square, yet its grandeur may be measured 
by a single glance. I immediately thought of the famous 
phrase in the decree uttered by the Chapter of the primitive 
church on July 8, 140 1, regarding the building of the new 
Cathedral : " Let us build a monument which shall cause 
posterity to think we must have been mad." These 
reverend canons did not fail in their intention. But to 
fully appreciate this we must enter. The exterior of the 
Cathedral is imposing and magnificent ; but less so than 
the interior. There is no facade : a high wall encloses the 
building like a fortress. It is useless to turn and gaze 
upon it, for you will never succeed in impressing a single 
outline upon your mind, which, like the introduction to 
a book, will give you a clear idea of the work ; you admire 
and you exclaim more than once : " It is immense ! " but 
you are not satisfied ; and you hasten to enter the church, 
hoping that you may receive there a more complete senti- 
ment of admiration. 

On entering you are stunned, you feel as if you are lost 
in an abyss ; and for several moments you can only let 
your glance wander over these immense curves in this im- 
mense space to assure yourself that your eyes and your 



I06 THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE. 

imagination are not deceiving you. Then you approach 
a column, measure it, and contemplate the others from 
a distance : they are as large as towers and yet they seem 
so slender that you tremble to think they support the 
edifice. With a rapid glance you look at them from pave- 
ment to ceiling and it seems as if you could almost count 
the moments that it takes the eye to rise with them. 
There are five naves^ each one of which might constitute 
a church. In the central one another cathedral could 
easily lift its high head surmounted by a cupola and bell- 
tower. Altogether there are sixty-eight vaults, so bold 
that it seems to you they expand and rise very slowly 
while you are looking at them. Everything in this Cathe- 
dral is enormous. The principal altar, placed in the centre 
of the great nave, is so high that it almost touches the 
vaulted ceiling, and seems to be an altar constructed for 
giant priests to whose knees only would ordinaiy altars 
reach ; the paschal candle seems like the mast of a ship ; 
and the bronze candlestick which holds it, is a museum of 
sculpture and carving which would in itself repay a day's 
visit. The chapels are worthy of the church, for in them 
are lavished the chefs d'ceuvre of sixty-seven sculptors and 
thirty-eight painters. Montanes, Zurbaran, Murillo, Valdes, 
Herrera, Boldan, Roelas, and Campana have left there 
a thousand immortal traces of their hands. St. Ferdi- 
nand's Chapel, containing the sepulchres of this king and 
of his wife Beatrice, of Alphonso the Wise, the celebrated 
minister Florida Blanca, and other illustrious personages, 
is one of the richest and most beautiful. The body of 
King Ferdinand, who delivered Seville from the dominion 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE. 10/ 

of the Arabs, clothed in his military dress, with the crown 
and the royal mantle, reposes in a crystal casket covered 
with a veil. On one side is the sword which he carried 
on the day of his entrance into Seville ; and on the other 
his staff, the symbol of command. In this same chapel 
a little ivory wand which the king carried to the wars, 
and other relics of great value are preserved. In the 
other chapels there are large marble altars, Gothic tombs 
and statues in stone, in wood and silver, enclosed in large 
caskets of silver with their bodies and hands covered with 
diamonds and rubies ; and some marvellous pictures, which, 
unfortunately, the feeble light, falling from the high win- 
dows, does not illuminate sufficiently to let the admirer see 
their entire beauty. 

But after a detailed examination of these chapels, paint- 
ings, and sculptures, you always return to admire the 
Cathedral's grand, and, if I may be allowed to say it, 
formidable aspect. After having glanced towards those 
giddy heights, the eye and mind are fatigued by the effort. 
And the abundant images correspond to the grandeur of 
the basilica; immense angels and monstrous heads of 
cherubim with wings as large as the sails of a ship and 
enormous floating mantles of blue. The impression that 
this Cathedral produces is entirely religious, but it is not 
sad ; it creates a feeling which carries the mind into the 
infinite space and silence where Leopardi's thoughts were 
plunged ; it creates a sentiment full of desire and boldness ; 
it produces that shiver which is experienced at the brink 
of a precipice, — that distress and confusion of great 
thoughts, that divine terror of the infinite. , . . 



I08 THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE. 

It is needless to speak of the Feasts of Holy Week : they 
are famous throughout the world, and people from all parts 
of Europe still flock to them. 

But the most curious privilege of the Cathedral of 
Seville is the dance de los seises^ which is performed every 
evening at twilight for eight consecutive days after the 
Feast of Corpus Domini, 

As I found myself in Seville at this time I went to see 
it. From what I had heard I expected a scandalous 
pasquinade, and I entered the church quite ready to be 
indignant at the profanation of a holy place. The church 
was dark ; only the large altar was illuminated, and a crowd 
of women kneeled before it. Several priests were sitting 
to the right and left of the altar. At a signal given by one 
of the priests, sweet music from violins broke the profound 
silence of the church, and two rows of children moved 
forward in the steps of a contre-danse^ and began to separate, 
interlace, break away, and again unite with a thousand 
graceful turnings ; then everybody joined in a melodious 
and charming hymn which resounded in the vast Cathedral 
like a choir of angels' voices ; and in the next moment 
they began to accompany their dance and song with 
castanets. No religious ceremony ever touched me like 
this. It is out of the question to describe the effect pro- 
duced by these little voices under the immense vaults, 
these little creatures at the foot of this enormous altar, 
this modest and almost humble dance, this antique cos- 
tume, this kneeling multitude, and the surrounding dark- 
ness. I went out of the church with as serene a soul as 
if I had been praying. ... 



THE CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE. IO9 

The famous Giralda of the Cathedral of Seville is an 
ancient Arabian tower, constructed, according to tradition, 
in the year one thousand, on the plan of the architect 
Huevar, the inventor of algebra ; it was modified in its 
upper part after the expulsion of the Moors and converted 
into a Christian bell-tower, yet it has always preserved 
its Arabian air and has always been prouder of the vanished 
standard of the conquered race than the Cross which the 
victors have placed upon it. This monument produces 
a novel sensation : it makes you smile : it is as enormous 
and imposing as an Egyptian pyramid and at the same 
time as gay and graceful as a garden kiosk. It is a square 
brick tower of a beautiful rose-colour, bare up to a certain 
height, and then ornamented all the way up by little 
Moorish twin-windows displayed here and there at hap- 
hazard and provided with little balconies which produce 
a very pretty effect. Upon the story, where formerly a 
roof of various colours rested, surmounted by an iron shaft 
which supported four enormous golden balls, the Christian 
bell-tower rises in three stories; the first containing the 
bells, the second enclosed by a balustrade, and the third 
forming a kind of cupola on which turns, like a weather- 
vane, a statue of gilt bronze representing Faith, holding 
a palm in one hand and in the other a standard visible at 
a long distance from Seville, and which, when touched by 
the sun, glitters like an enormous ruby imbedded in the 
crown of a Titan king who rules the entire valley of 
Andalusia with his glance. 

La Spagna (Florence, 1873). 



WINDSOR CASTLE. 
WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON. 

STEEP chalk bluff, starting from a river margin with 
the heave and dominance of a tidal wave is Castle 
Hill, now crowned and mantled by the Norman keep, the 
royal house, the chapel of St. George, and the depending 
gardens, terraces, and slopes. 

Trees beard the slope and tuft the ridge. Live waters 
curl and murmur at the base. In front, low-lying meadows 
curtsey to the royal hill. Outward, on the flanks, to east 
and west, run screens of elm and oak, of beech and poplar ; 
here, sinking into clough and dell : there mounting up to 
smiling sward and wooded knoll. Far in the rear lie 
forest glades, with walks and chases, losing themselves in 
distant heath and holt. By the edges of dripping wells, 
which bear the names of queen and saint, stand aged oaks, 
hoary with time and rich in legend : patriarchs of the 
forest, wedded to the readers of all nations by immortal 
verse. 

A gentle eminence, the Castle Hill springs from the 
bosom of a typical English scene. 

Crowning a verdant ridge, the Norman keep looks 
northward on a wide and wooded level, stretching over 



WINDSOR CASTLE. Ill 

many shires, tawny with corn and rye, bright with abundant 
pasture, and the red and white of kine and sheep, while 
here again the landscape is embrowned with groves and 
parks. The stream curves softly past your feet, uncon- 
scious of the capital, unruffled by the tide. Beyond the 
river bank lie open meadows, out of which start up the 
pinnacles of Eton College, the Plantagenet school and 
cloister, v/hence for twenty-one reigns the youth of England 
have been trained for court and camp, the staff, the mitre, 
and the marble chair. Free from these pinnacles, the eye 
is caught by darksome clump, and antique tower, and 
distant height ; each darksome clump a haunted wood, 
each antique tower an elegy in stone, each distant height 
a storied and romantic hill. That darksome clump is 
Burnham wood ; this antique tower is Stoke ; yon distant 
heights are Hampstead Heath and Richmond Park. Nearer 
to the eye stand Farnham Royal, Upton park, and Langley 
Marsh ; the homes of famous men, the sceneries of great 
events. 

Swing round to east or south, and still the eye falls 
lovingly on household spots. There, beyond Datchet ferry, 
stood the lodge of Edward the Confessor, and around 
his dwelling spread the hunting-grounds of Alfred and 
other Saxon kings. Yon islet in the Thames is Magna 
Charta Island ; while the open field, below the reach, is 
Runnymede. 

The heights all round the Norman keep are capped 
with fame — one hallowed by a saint, another crowned 
with song. Here is St. Leonard's hill ; and yonder, rising 
over Runnymede, is Cooper's hill. Saints, poets, kings 



112 WINDSOR CASTLE. 

and queens, divide the royalties in almost equal shares. 
St. George is hardly more a presence in the place than 
Chaucer and Shakespeare. Sanctity and poetry are every- 
where about us ; in the royal chapel, by the river-side, 
among the forest oaks, and even in the tavern yards. 
Chaucer and Shakespeare have a part in Windsor hardly 
less pronounced than that of Edward and Victoria, that of 
St. Leonard and St. George. 

Windsor was river born and river named. The stream 
is winding, serpentine; the bank by which it rolls was 
called the " winding shore." The fact, common to all 
countries, gives a name which is common to all languages. 
Snakes, dragons, serpentines, are names of winding rivers 
in every latitude. There is a Snake river in Utah, another 
Snake river in Oregon ; there is a Drach river in France, 
another Drach river in Switzerland. The straits between 
Paria and Trinidad is the Dragon's Mouth ; the outfall of 
Lake Chiriqui is also the Dragon's Mouth. In the Morea, 
in Majorca, in Ionia, there are Dragons. There is a 
Serpent islet off the Danube, and a Serpentaria in Sardinia. 
We have a modern Serpentine in Hyde Park ! 

Windsor, born of that winding shore-line, found in after 
days her natural patron in St. George. 

With one exception, all the Castle builders were men 
and women of English birth and English taste ; Henry 
Beauclerc, Henry of Winchester, Edward of Windsor, 
Edward of York, Henry the Seventh, Queen Elizabeth, 
George the Fourth, and Queen Victoria ; and these Eng- 
lish builders stamped an English spirit on every portion 
of the pile — excepting on the Norman keep. 



WINDSOR CASTLE. II3 

Ages before the Normans came to Windsor, a Saxon 
hunting-lodge had been erected in the forest ; not on the 
bleak and isolated crest of hill, but by the river margin, 
on "the winding shore." This Saxon lodge lay hidden in 
the depths of ancient woods, away from any public road 
and bridge. The King's highway ran north, the Devil's 
Causeway to the south. The nearest ford was three 
miles up the stream, the nearest bridge was five miles 
down the stream. A bridle-path, such as may still be 
found in Spain or Sicily, led to that Saxon lodge ; but 
here this path was lost among the ferns and underwoods. 
No track led on to other places. Free to the chase, yet 
severed from the world, that hunting-lodge was like a nest. 
Old oaks and elms grew round about as screens. Deep 
glades, with here and there a bubbling spring, extended 
league on league, as far as Chertsey bridge and Guildford 
down. This forest knew no tenants save the hart and boar, 
the chough and crow. An air of privacy, and poetry, and 
romance, hung about this ancient forest lodge. 

Seeds of much legendary lore had been already sown. 
A builder of that Saxon lodge had been imagined in a 
mythical king — Arthur of the Round Table, Arthur of 
the blameless life — a legend which endures at Windsor 
to the present day. There, Godwin, sitting at the king's 
board, had met his death, choked with the lie in his 
wicked throat. There, Edward the Confessor had lisped 
his prayers, and cured the halt and blind. There, too, the 
Saxon princes, Tosti and Harold, were supposed to have 
fought in the king's presence, lugging out each other's 
locks, and hurling each other to the ground. Of later 

8 



114 WINDSOR CASTLE. 

growth were other legends ; ranging from the romance 
of the Fitz-Warines, through the Romaunt of the Rose, 
down to the rhyme of King Edward and the Shepherd, 
the mystery of Heme the Hunter, and the humours of the 
Merry Wives. 

WilHam the Conqueror preserved his Saxon hunting- 
lodge by the river-side, but built his Norman keep on the 
Castle Hill — perhaps on the ruins of a Celtic camp, 
certainly round the edges of a deep and copious well. 

Henry Beauclerc removed his dwelling from the river 
margin to the crest of hill, building the First King's 
House. This pile extended from the Devil's tower to 
the Watch tower, now renamed Victoria tower. A part 
of Beauclerc's edifice remains in massive walls of the 
Devil's tower, and a cutting through the chalk, sustained 
by Norman masonry, leading from a shaft under the 
Queen's apartment to the southern ditch. 

Henry of Winchester, a man of higher genius as an 
architect, built the Second King's House, sweeping into 
his lines the lower ground, which he covered by walls and 
towers, including Winchester tower, and the whole curtain 
by Curfew tower and Salisbury tower, round to the Lieu- 
tenant's lodgings, now called Henry the Third's tower. 
The Second King's House, long since ruined and removed, 
stood on the site of the present cloisters. Much of Henry 
of Winchester's work remains ; in fact, the circuit of the 
lower ward is mainly his, both walls and towers, from the 
Devil's tower, touching the upper ward, round to Curfew 
tower in the north-west angle of the lower ward. 

Edward of Windsor built the Third King's House, 



WINDSOR CASTLE. II5 

fronting towards the north, and gave the upper ward its 
final shape. On introducing a new patron saint to Wind- 
sor, Edward removed his own lodging, and renounced the 
lower ward entirely to the service of St. George. First 
came the chapel of St. George ; next came the College of 
St. George ; then came the Canons of St. George ; lastly, 
came the Poor Knights of St. George. The central ground 
was given up to the chapel, and the adjoining quarter 
to the college. From Curfew tower to the Lieutenant's 
lodgings, all the ground was consecrated to the saint. 
The first tower, reckoning from the south, became Garter 
House, the second Chancellor's tower, the third Garter 
tower, while the land within the walls was covered by 
residences for the military knights. An area equal to the 
upper baily was surrendered to his patron saint. 

Edward of York rebuilt St. George's Chapel on a larger 
scale ; for Edward of York had heavy sins to weigh him 
down, and pressing need for saintly help. 

Henry of Richmond roofed that chapel, built a " new 
tower " in the King's House, and made a fair causeway 
from Windsor to London — the first road ever made 
between the castle and the capital. 

Queen Elizabeth built the gallery which bears her name, 
and raised the great terraces above the Thames. Before 
her time the scarp was rough and steep : she built this 
solid wall, and laid this level road. 

George the Fourth raised the Norman keep in height, 
flanked the park entrance with another tower, opened 
St. George's gate, buttressed the North-east tower, and 
called his new edifice Brunswick tower. 



Il6 WINDSOR CASTLE. 

Like Queen Elizabeth, Queen Victoria has devoted her 
attention rather to the slopes and gardens than the struc- 
ture ; but the few additions of her reign have been effected 
with a proper reverence for the ancient pile. Her Majesty 
has cleared off slum and tenement from the slopes, and 
opened the southern terrace, just as Elizabeth opened the 
northern terrace. Work has been done in cloister and 
chapel. As Henry of Richmond made a road from 
Windsor to London, Queen Victoria has brought two 
railways to her castle gates. 

Since the days of Edward of Windsor the Castle hill 
has kept the triple character — upper ward, middle ward, 
and lower ward — baily of the King, baily of the keep, 
and baily of St. George — the residence of our sovereign, 
the symbol of our power, the altar of our saint. 

Royal Windsor (London, 1879). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 

ERNEST BRETON. 

WE are now in the middle of the Tenth Century and 
in the city of Cologne ; for several hours a man 
has been sitting upon the banks of a river, flowing majestically 
at the base of those ramparts which sixty years ago were 
erected by Philip von Heinsberg, and for several hours his 
thoughtful brow has not been lifted. This man was the 
first master-workman of his time ; three centuries later he 
was called the prince of architects. The Archbishop of 
Cologne had said to him : " Master, we must build a 
cathedral here which will surpass all the buildings of the 
world in grandeur and magnificence." The artist replied : 
" I will do it ; " and now he was pondering over ways of 
accomplishing his promise about which he was frightened. 
At this moment he was trying to think out a marvellous 
plan which would give lustre to his country and immortalize 
his name ; but nothing came into his mind worthy of the 
prodigy he was trying to conceive and could not create. 

An unknown old man now approached and sat beside 
him, regarding him with a mocking air, as if he rejoiced in 
his perplexity and despair; every now and then he gave a 
little, dry cough, and when he had attracted the attention 
of the artist, he rapidly traced on the sand with a ring some 



Il8 THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 

lines which he immediately effaced. These lines formed 
exactly that plan which always escaped the artist and whose 
fugitive image he could not seize. 

" You would like to have this plan ? " asked the old man. 

" I would give all I possess for it." 

"I exact nothing. The building that you construct will 
be the envy and the eternal despair of all your successors, 
the admiration of centuries to come, and your brilliant and 
celebrated name will be known to the most remote genera- 
tions. Your life will be long ; you will pass it in glory, 
wealth, and pleasure. For all that I only ask for your soul 
when your life draws to its close." 

" Vade retro Satanas ! " cried the agitated artist. " Bet- 
ter the nothingness of oblivion than eternal damnation." 

" Patience," said Satan, " reflect : we shall see," and he 
vanished. The master-workman returned to his humble 
dwelling, sadder and more dreamful than when he left it ; 
he could not close his eyes all night. Glory, wealth, and 
pleasure for many long years, and all that for one word ! 
In vain he tried to shake himself free from the fatal temp- 
tation ; at every moment, at every step he again saw the 
tempter showing him his transitory plan ; he succumbed. 

" To-morrow, at midnight," said Satan, " go to that spot 
and I will bring you the plan and the pact that you must 
sign." 

The artist returned to the city, divided between remorse 
and dreams of pride and ambition. Remorse conquered, 
and before the appointed hour he had told everything to his 
confessor. " It will be a master-stroke," said the latter, 
" to deceive Satan himself and snatch the famous plan from 



THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. II9 

him without paying the price of your soul," and he sketched 
out the line of conduct that he should follow. 

At the appointed hour the two parties stood face to face. 
" Here," said Satan, " are the plan and pact ; take it and sign 
i:." Ouick as lightning the master-workman snatched the 
plan with one hand and with the other he brandished a 
piece of the True Cross, which the wily confessor had 
given to him. " I am vanquished," cried Satan, " but you 
Vv'ill reap little benefit through your treachery. Your name 
will be unknown and your work will never be completed." 

Such is the legend of the Cathedral of Cologne. I have 
told it here so that the admiration of the Middle Ages for 
this plan, which could not be considered the work of any 
human genius, may be measured, and for six centuries the 
sinister prediction of Satan has held good, ^ 

At the north-east end of the elevation occupied by the 
ancient Colonia Agrippina^ in the spot where the choir of the 
Cathedral raises its magnificent pinnacles, there existed in 
very remote ages a Roman Castellum. At a later period 
this was replaced by a palace of the French kings, 
which Charlemagne gave to his chancellor and confessor 
Hildebold. ... 

The Cathedral of Cologne was one of the most ancient 
seats of Christianity in Germany ; it contained in its juris- 
diction the capital of Charlemagne's Empire, the city where 
the Emperors were crowned. In the Twelfth Century, 
Frederick Barbarossa enriched it with one of those sacred 

1 The spires of the Cathedral were finished in 1880, and the com- 
pletion of the edifice was celebrated before the Emperor William I. on 
October 15th of that year. — E. S. 



120 THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 

treasures which in a time of faith attracted entire populations 
and gave birth to the gigantic enterprises which seem so 
incredible in our positive and sceptical age. All eyes were 
turned to the Holy Land, and the pilgrims of Germany, as 
well as of other countries, before undertaking this perilous 
voyage came by the thousands to the tomb of the Magi, to 
pray to God that the same star which guided the Three 
Wise Men to Christ's cradle might lead them to his tomb. 
The celebrity and wealth of the Cologne Cathedral was 
greatly due to the custom of the Emperors visiting it after 
their coronation. Thus, from the moment it was in pos- 
session of the sacred relics, everything combined to augment 
its splendour; princes, emperors, and people of all classes 
were eager to add to its treasures. Therefore, it was only 
a natural consequence to erect on the site of the old 
Cathedral of St. Peter a building more vast and magnificent, 
and which would accord better with its important destiny. 
The Archbishop Angebert, Count of Altena and Berg, upon 
whom Frederick II. conferred the dignity of vicar of the 
empire, conceived the first idea ; but at about the age of 
forty he was assassinated by his cousin, the Count of 
Ysembourg, in 1225, and the enterprise was abandoned. 
Finally, a great fire devoured the Cathedral in 1248 and 
its immediate reconstruction was indispensable. . . . 

Everyone knows that almost all churches of the 
pointed arch which occupied several centuries in building 
show the special mark of the periods in which their various 
additions were constructed ; this is not the case with the 
Cathedral of Cologne, which is peculiar in the fact that 
its foundations and its additions were all constructed on 



THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 121 

one and the same plan, which preserves the original design, 
and therefore it presents a rare and admirable unity. 

On the side of the Rhine, or rather on the Margreten, 
between the Trankgass and the Domhof, the choir of the 
basilica offers the most imposing effect. It is only from 
this side that the edifice seems to have an end. The end 
of the roof, edged in all its length by an open-worked 
ridge, is surmounted by an enormous cross, nine metres 
high, finished with a fleur-de-lis at each extrem.ity. This 
cross, weighing 694 kil., was only placed there on August 3, 
1825, but it was long in existence, having been, it is said, 
presented to the church by Marie de' Medici. In the 
centre of the transept there rose a bell-tower, 65 metres 
high, which was demolished in 181 2. The plan carries 
a snperh ^khe of stone, open-worked like the spires of the 
facade, and about 100 metres high. 

Fifteen flying-buttresses on each side proceed from the 
central window and sustain the choir, leaning against the 
buttresses and surmounted by elegant pyramids. Each of 
these pyramids carries twelve niches destined to hold 
angels two metres high, many of which have been 
restored lately by Wilhelm ImhofF. The upper part of 
the flying-buttresses, at the point where they meet the 
balustrade of the roof, is crowned by another and more 
simple pyramid. Finally, between these flying-buttresses 
in the upper part of the wall of the choir, magnificent 
mullioned windows are disclosed. The entire edifice is 
covered with gargoyles, each more bizarre than the 
other. . . . 

Entering the cathedral by the door at the foot of the 



122 THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 

northern tower, you find yourself in the double-lov/er 
northern nave. I'he first bays do not contain altars, but 
their windows reveal magnificent panes, of the beginning 
of the Sixteenth Century. The Archbishop Herman von 
Hesse, the Chapter, the City, and many noble families 
united to have them painted by the most distinguished 
artists of the period, which was the apogee of Art in 
Germany 5 and therefore here are many of the most 
admirable chefs d'ceuvre of glass-painting. . . . 

The Chapel of the Kings is almost entirely occupied 
by the building erected in 1688 and ornamented by Ionic 
pilasters of marble, and which, shut in by grilles and many 
locks, contains the marvellous reliquary in which are 
preserved the relics of the Three Magi. According to 
Buttler, these relics were found by Saint Helena, mother 
of Constantine, during her pilgrimage to the Holy Land ; 
she carried them carefully to Constantinople. Soon after- 
wards the Archbishop Eustorge, to whom the Emperor had 
presented them, brought them to Milan, where they were 
deposited in the church subsequently consecrated to the 
same Eustorge, who was canonized. When Frederick 
Barbarossa invaded the town in 1163, Reinald von Dassile, 
Archbishop of Cologne, received them as a reward for 
the services which he had rendered to the Emperor during 
the siege. At the same time Reinald obtained several 
relics of the Maccabees, of the Saints Apollinaris, Felix, 
Nabor, Gregory di Spoletto, etc. He, himself, accom- 
panied this treasure, which crossed Switzerland in triumph, 
descended the Rhine to Remagen, vi'here he gave it to 
Philip of Heinsberg, then provost of the Chapter. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 123 

On July 23, 1 1 64, the relics were deposited in the 
ancient cathedral, from which they were transferred to 
the new one ; they were guarded there simply by an iron 
grille until the Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich con- 
structed the building which encloses them to-day, upon 
whose pediment you see sculptured in marble, by Michael 
Van der Voorst of Antwerp, the Adoration of the Magi, 
Saint Felix, Saint Nabor, and two female figures guarding 
the arms of the Metropolitan Chapter, in the midst of 
which figure those of the Archbishop Maximilian Heinrich. 
On the frieze you read the inscription : " Tribus ah oriente 
regibus devicto in agnitione ver'i numinis capitulum metropol. 
erexit.'" Above the grilled window, which is opened dur- 
ing grand ceremonies to permit the people to see the 
reliquary, is written : 

" Corpora sanctorum recubant hie terna magorum ; 
Ax his sublatum nihil est alibiije locatum.'''' 

Finally, above the reliquary placed to the right and left 
between the columns one reads : " Et apertis thesauris suis 
obtulerunt munera." 

In 1794 the relics were carried to the treasury of 
Arnsberg, then to Prague, where the three crowns of 
diamonds were sold, and finally to Frankfort-on-the-Main. 
When they were brought back in 1804, the reliquary was 
repaired and put in its old place. This reliquary, a chef 
d'ceuvre of Twelfth Century orf'evrerie^ is of gilded copper 
with the exception of the front, which is of pure gold ; its 
form is that of a tomb ; its length i m. 85, its breadth 
I m. at the base, its height i m. 50 ; on the side turned 



124 THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 

to the west you see represented the Adoration of the 
Magi and the baptism of Jesus Christ. Above the sculp- 
ture is a kind of lid which may be raised, permitting you to 
see the skulls of the Three Kings ornamented with golden 
crowns garnished with Bohemian stones, — a kind of 
garnet ; in the pediment is the image of the Divine Judge 
sitting between two angels who hold the attributes of the 
Passion ; the two busts above represent Gabriel and 
Raphael ; and, finally, an enormous topaz occupies the 
summit of the pediment. The right side of the reliquary 
is ornamented with images of the prophets, Moses, Jonah, 
David, Daniel, Am^os, and Obadiah. The apostles Paul, 
Philip, Simon, Thomas, and Judas Thaddeus are placed 
in six niches above. In the left side you see the prophets 
Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Nahum, Solomon, Joel, and Aaron, and 
the apostles Bartholomew, Matthew, John the Lesser, An- 
drew, Peter, and John the Great. The back of the monu- 
ment presents the flagellation of Jesus Christ, the Virgin 
Mary, Saint John, the Saviour on the Cross, Saint Felix, 
Saint Nabor, the Archbishop Reinald and eight busts of 
angels. The monument is surmounted by an open-work 
ridge of copper lace. This magnificent reliquary is cov- 
ered with more than 1,500 precious stones and antique 
cameos representing subjects which are not exactly Christian 
such as the apotheosis of an Emperor, two heads of 
Medusa, a head of Hercules, one of Alexander, etc. 
Behind the reliquary is a bas-relief in marble i m. 33 in 
height and i m. 40 in length, representing the solemn 
removal of the relics. The bas-reliefs of richly-gilt 
bronze, placed below the windows which occupy the back 



THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 125 

of the chapel, represent the Adoration of the Magi : 
these were the gift of Jacques de Croy, Duke of Cambrai 
in 15 16. This window is ornamented with beautiful 
panes of the Thirteenth Century, representing various 
subjects of sacred history. 

Jules Gaillhabaud, Monuments anciens et modernes (Paris, 1865). 



THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 

AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE. 

THE first palace of Versailles was a hunting-lodge 
built by Louis XIII. at the angle of the present 
Rue de la Pompe and Avenue de Saint-Cloud. This he 
afterwards found too small, and built, in 1627, ^ moated 
castle, on the site of a windmill in which he had once 
taken shelter for the night. The buildings of this chateau 
still exist, respected, as the home of his father, in all the 
alterations of Louis XIV., and they form the centre of the 
present place. In 1632 Louis XIII. became seigneur of 
Versailles by purchase from Francois de Gondi, Archbishop 
of Paris. 

The immense works which Louis XIV. undertook here, 
and which were carried out by the architect Mansart, were 
begun in 1661, and in 1682 the residence of the Court 
was definitely fixed at Versailles, connected by new roads 
with the capital. Colbert made a last effort to keep the 
king at Paris, and to divert the immense sums which were 
being swallowed up in Versailles to the completion of the 
Louvre. The very dulness of the site of Versailles, leav- 
ing everything to be created, was an extra attraction in the 
eyes of Louis XIV. The great difficulty to be contended 
with in the creation of Versailles was the want of water, 





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THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 127 

and this, after various other attempts had failed, it was 
hoped to overcome by a canal w^hich was to bring the 
waters of the Eure to the royal residence. In 1681 
22,000 soldiers and 6,000 horses were employed in this 
v/ork, with such results of sickness that the troops en- 
camped at Maintenon, where the chief part of the work 
was, became unfit for any service. On October 12, 1678, 
Mme. de Sevigne writes to Bussy-Rabutin : — 

" The king wishes to go to Versailles ; but it seems that God 
does not, to judge from the difficulty of getting the buildings ready 
for occupation and the dreadful mortality of the workmen who are 
carried away every night in waggons filled with the dead. This 
terrible occurrence is kept secret so as not to create alarm and not 
to decry the air of this favori sans m'erite. You know this bon mot 
of Versailles." 

Nine millions were expended in the Aqueduct of 
Maintenon, of which the ruins are still to be seen, then it 
was interrupted by the war of 1688, and the works were 
never continued. Instead, all the water of the pools and 
the snow falling on the plain between Rambouillet and 
Versailles was brought to the latter by a series of subter- 
ranean watercourses. 

No difficulties, however — not even pestilence, or the 
ruin of the country by the enormous cost — were allowed to 
interfere with " les plaisirs du roi." The palace rose, and 
its gigantic gardens were peopled with statues, its woods 
with villages. 

Under Louis XV. Versailles was chiefly remarkable as 
being the scene of the extravagance of Mme. de Pompa- 



128 THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 

dour and the turpitude of Mme. du Barry. Mme. Campan 
has described for us the life, the very dull life, there of 
" Mesdames," daughters of the king. Yet, till the great 
Revolution, since vi^hich it has been only a shadow of its 
former self, the town of Versailles drev/ ail its life from the 
chateau. 

Approaching from the town on entering the grille of the 
palace from the Place cV Amies we find ourselves in the vast 
Cour cles Statues — " solennelle et inorne." In the centre is 
an equestrian statue of Louis XIV. by Petitot and Cartellier. 
Many of the surrounding statues were brought from the 
Pont de la Concorde at Paris. Two projecting wings shut 
in the Cour Poyale^ and separate it from the Cour des Princes 
on the left, and the Cour de la Chapelle on the right. Beyond 
the Cour Royale^ deeply recessed amongst later buildings is 
the court called, from its pavement, the Cour de Marbre^ 
surrounded by the little old red chateau of Louis XIII. 

The Cour de Marhre was sometimes used as a theatre 
under Louis XIV., and the opera of Alcestis was given 
there. It has a peculiar interest, for no stranger can look 
up at the balcony of the first floor without recalling Marie 
Antoinette presenting herself there, alone, to the fury of the 
people, October 6, 1789. 

The palace of Versailles has never been inhabited by 
royalty since the chain of carriages drove into this court 
on October 6, to convey Louis XVI. and his family to 
Paris. 

From the Grande Cour the gardens may be reached by 
passages either from the Cour des Princes on the left, or 
from the Cour de la Chapelle on the right. This palace has 



THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 129 

had three chapels in turn. The first, built by Louis XIII., 
was close to the marble staircase. The second, built 
by Louis XIV., occupied the site of the existing Salon 
cVHercule. The present chapel, built 1699-1 7 10, is the 
last work of Mansart. 

Here we may think of Bossuet, thundering before Louis 
XIV., " les royaumes meurent^ s'lre^ conune les rois^^ and of 
the words of Massillon, " Si yesus- Christ paraissait dans ce 
temple^ au milieu de cette asseiublee^ la plus auguste de runivers^ 
pour vous juger^ pour f aire le terrible discernement" etc. Here 
we may imagine Louis XIV. daily assisting at the Mass, and 
his courtiers, especially the ladies, attending also to flatter 
him, but gladly escaping, if they thought he would not be 
there. ... 

All the furniture of Versailles was sold during the Revo- 
lution (in 1793), and, though a few pieces have been recov- 
ered, the palace is for the most part unfurnished, and little 
more than a vast picture-gallery. From the ante-chamber 
of the chapel open two galleries on the ground floor of 
the north wing. One is the Galerie des Sculptures; the 
other, divided by different rooms looking on the garden, 
is the Galerie de V Histoire de France. The first six rooms 
of the latter formed the apartments of the Due de Maine, 
the much indulged son of Louis XIV. and Mme. de 
Maintenon. 

At the end of the gallery (but only to be entered now 
from the Rue des Reservoirs) is the Salle de I' Opera. In 
spite of the passion of Louis XIV. for dramatic representa- 
tions, no theatre was built in the palace during his reign. 
Some of the plays of Moliere and Racine were acted in 

9 



130 THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 

improvised theatres in the park ; others, in the halls of the 
palace, without scenery or costumes ; the Athalie of Racine, 
before the King and Mme, de Maintenon, by the young 
ladies of Saint-Cyr. The present Opera House was begun 
by Jacques Ange-Gabriel under Louis XV. for Mme. de 
Pompadour and finished for Mme. du Barry. 

The Opera House was inaugurated on the marriage of 
the Dauphin with Marie Antoinette, and nineteen years 
after was the scene of that banquet, the incidents of which 
were represented in a manner so fatal to the monarchy, 
given by the body-guard of the king to the officers of a 
regiment which had arrived from Flanders. . . . 

The garden front of the palace has not yet experienced 
the soothing power of age : it looks almost new ; two 
hundred years hence it will be magnificent. The long 
lines of the building, with its two vast wings, are only 
broken by the top of the chapel rising above the wing on 
the left. 

The rich masses of green formed by the clipped yews at 
the sides of the gardens have the happiest effect, and con- 
trast vividly with the dark background of chestnuts, of 
which the lower part is trimmed, but the upper falls in 
masses of heavy shade, above the brilliant gardens with their 
population of statues. These grounds are the masterpiece 
of Lenotre, and of geometrical gardening, decorated with 
vases, fountains, and orange-trees. Lovers of the natural 
may find great fault with these artificial gardens, but there is 
much that is grandiose and noble in them ; and, as Voltaire 
says : " // est plus facile de critiquer Versailles que de le 
refaireJ'^ 



THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. 131 

The gardens need the enlivenment of the figures, for 
which they were intended as a background, in the gay 
Courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. as represented in the 
pictures of Watteau ; but the Memoirs of the time enable 
us to repeople them with a thousand forms which have long 
been dust, centring around the great king, " Se promenant 
.dans ses jar elms de Versailles^ dans son fauteuil a roues" 

The sight of the magnificent terraces in front of the 
palace will recall the nocturnal promenades of the Court, 
so much misrepresented by the enemies of Marie Antoinette. 

Very stately is the view down the main avenue — great 
fountains of many figures in the foreground 5 then the 
brilliant Tapis Vert^ between masses of rich wood ; then 
the Bassin d'Jpollon^ and the great canal extending to 
distant meadows and lines of natural poplars. 

Days near Parts (London, 1887). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 
THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN. 

WELCOME to Lincoln ! Upwards of twenty sum- 
mer suns have rolled their bright and genial 
courses since my first visit to this ancient city, — or rather, 
to this venerable Cathedral : for the former seems to be 
merged in the latter. There is no proportion between 
them. A population of only twelve thousand inhabitants 
and scarcely more than an ordinary sprinkling of low 
commonplace brick-houses, are but inharmonious acces- 
sories to an ecclesiastical edifice, built upon the summit 
of a steep and lofty hill — pointing upwards with its three 
beautiful and massive towers towards heaven, and stretch- 
ing longways with its lofty nave, choir, ladye-chapel, side 
chapels, and double transepts. For site^ there is no Cathe- 
dral to my knowledge which approaches it. . . . 

Upon a comparative estimation with the Cathedral of 
York, Lincoln may be called a volume of more extensive 
instruction ; and the antiquary clings to its pages with a 
more varied delight. The surface or exterior of Lincoln 
Cathedral presents at least four perfect specimens of the 
succeeding styles of the first four orders of Gothic archi- 
tecture. The greater part of the front may be as old as 




THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 133 

the time of its founder, Bishop Remigius, ^ at the end 
of the Eleventh Century : but even here may be traced 
invasions and intermixtures, up to the Fifteenth Century. 
The large indented windows are of this latter period, and 
exhibit a frightful heresy. The western towers carry you 
to the end of the Twelfth Century : then succeeds a won- 
derful extent of Early English, or the pointed arch. The 
transepts begin with the Thirteenth, and come down to 
the middle of the Fourteenth Century ; and the interior, 
especially the choir and the side aisles, abounds with the 
most exquisitely varied specimens of that period. Fruits, 
flowers, vegetables, insects, capriccios of every description, 
encircle the arches or shafts, and sparkle upon the capitals 
of pillars. Even down to the reign of Henry VIII. there 
are two private chapels, to the left of the smaller south 
porch, on entrance, which are perfect gems of art. 

Where a building is so diversified, as well as vast, it is 
difficult to be methodical ; but the reader ought to know, 
as soon as possible, that there are here not only tv/o sets 
of transepts, as at York, but that the larger transept is the 
longest in England, being not less than two hundred and 
fifty feet in length. The window of the south transept is 
circular, and so large as to be twenty-two feet in diameter ; 
bestudded with ancient stained glass, now become some- 
what darkened by time, and standing m immediate need 
of cleaning and repairing. I remember, on my first visit 

^ Remigius was a monk of Fescamp in Normandy, and brought 
over here by William the Conqueror. He was worthy of all promo- 
tion. Brompton tells us that he began to build the Cathedral in 1088, 
and finished it in 1092, when it was consecrated; but the founder 
died two days before its consecration. 



134 THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 

to this Cathedral, threading the whole of the clerestory on 
the south side, and coming immediately under this mag- 
nificent window, which astonished me from its size and 
decorations. Still, for simplicity as well as beauty of effect, 
the delicately ornamented lancet windows of the north 
transept of York Cathedral have clearly a decided prefer- 
ence. One wonders how these windows, both at York 
and at this place, escaped destruction from Cromwell's 
soldiers. . . . The Galilee, to the left of the larger south 
transept, is a most genuine and delicious specimen of Early 
English architecture. In this feature, York, upon com- 
parison, is both petty and repulsive. 

Wherever the eye strays or the imagination catches a 
point upon which it may revel in building up an ingenious 
hypothesis, the exterior of Lincoln Cathedral (some five 
hundred feet in length) is a never failing source of 
gratification. . . . 

Let us turn to the grand western front ; and v/hatever 
be the adulterations of the component parts, let us admire 
its width and simplicity ; — the rude carvings, or rather 
sculpture, commemorative of the Hfe of the founder, St. 
Remigius : and although horrified by the indented win- 
dows, of the perpendicular style, let us pause again and 
again before we enter at the side-aisle door. All the 
three doors are too low ; but see what a height and what 
a space this front occupies ! It was standing on this spot, 
that Corio, my dear departed friend — some twenty years 
ago — assured me he remained almost from sunset to 
dawn of day, as the whole of the front was steeped in the 
soft silvery light of an autumnal full moon. He had seen 



THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 135 

nothing before so grand. He had felt nothing before so 
stirring. The planets and stars, as they rolled in their 
silent and glittering orbits, and in a subdued lustre, over 
the roof of the nave, gave peculiar zest to the grandeur 
of the w^hole scene : add to which, the awfully deepening 
sounds of Great Tom ^ made his very soul to vibrate ! 
Here, as that bell struck the hour of two, seemed to sit 
the shrouded figures of Remigius, Bloet, and Geoffrey 
Plantagenet,^ who, saluting each other in formal prostra- 
tions, quickly vanished at the sound " into thin air." The 
cock crew ; the sun rose ; and with it all enchantment 
was at an end. Life has few purer, yet more delirious 
enjoyments, than this. . . . 

The reader may here, perhaps, expect something like the 
institution of a comparison between these two great rival 
Cathedrals of Lincoln and York ; although he will have 
observed many points in common between them to have 

1 This must have been " Great Tom," the First, cast In 1610 ; 
preceded probably by one or more Great Toms, to the time of Geoffrey 
Plantagenet. " Great Tom," the Second, was cast by Mr, Mears of 
Whitechapel in 1834, and was hung in the central tower in 1835. 
Its weight is 5 tons, 8 cwt. ; being one ton heavier than the great bell 
of St. Paul's Cathedral. ..." Great Tom," the First, was hung in 
the north-west tower. 

2 Robert Bloet was a worthy successor of Remigius, the founder. 
Bloet was thirty years a bishop of this see — largely endowing it with 
prebendal stalls, and with rich gifts of palls, hoods, and silver crosses. 
He completed the western front — and, perhaps, finished the Nor- 
man portion of the nave, now replaced by the Early English. . . . 
Geoffrey Plantagenet was a natural son of Henry H., and was elected 
in 1 173. . . . The latter years of his life seem to be involved in 
mystery, for he fled the kingdom five years before his death, which 
happened at Grosmont, near Rouen, in 1212. 



136 THE CATHEDRAL OF LINCOLN. 

been previously settled. The preference to Lincoln is 
given chiefly from its minute and varied detail; while its 
position impresses you at first sight, with such mingled awe 
and admiration, that you cannot divest yourself of this 
impression, on a more dispassionately critical survey of its 
component parts. The versed antiquary adheres to Lin- 
coln, and would build his nest within one of the crocketted 
pinnacles of the western towers — that he might hence 
command a view of the great central tower ; and, abroad 
of the straight Roman road running to Barton, and the 
glittering waters of the broad and distant Humber. But 
for one human being of this stamp, you would have one 
hundred collecting within and without the great rival at 
York. Its vastness, its space, its effulgence of light and 
breadth of effect : its imposing simplicity, by the compara- 
tive paucity of minute ornament — its lofty lantern, shining, 
as it were, at heaven's gate, on the summit of the central 
tower : and, above all, the soul-awakening devotion kindled 
by a survey of its vast and matchless choir leave not a 
shadow of doubt behind, respecting the decided superiority 
of this latter edifice. 

A Bibliographical, Antiquarian, and Picturesque Tour in the 
Northern Counties of E'dgland and in Scotland (London, 1838). 



THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 
AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 

■"E now left the village behind, and rode out across 
a wide plain, barren and hillocky in some parts ; 
overgrown in others with coarse halfeh grass ; and dotted 
here and there with clumps of palms. The Nile lay low 
and out of sight, so that the valley seemed to stretch away 
uninterruptedly to the mountains on both sides. Now leav- 
ing to the left a Sheykh's tomb, topped by a little cupola 
and shaded by a group of tamarisks; now following the bed 
of a dry watercourse ; now skirting shapeless mounds that 
indicated the site of ruins unexplored, the road, uneven but 
direct, led straight to Karnak. At eveiy rise in the ground 
we saw the huge propyions towering higher above the 
palms. Once, but for only a few moments, there came 
into sight a confused and wide-spread mass of ruins, as 
extensive, apparently, as the ruins of a large town. Then 
our way dipped into a sandy groove bordered by mud-walls 
and plantations of dwarf-palms. All at once this groove 
v/Idened, became a stately avenue guarded by a double file 
of shattered sphinxes, and led towards a lofty pylon stand- 
ing up alone against the sky. 

Close beside this grand gatev/ay, as if growing there on 
purpose, rose a thicket of sycamores and palms ; while 



138 THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 

beyond it were seen the twin pylons of a Temple. The 
sphinxes were colossal, and measured about ten feet in 
length. One or two were ram-headed. Of the rest — 
some forty or fifty in number — all were headless, some 
split asunder, some overturned, others so mutilated that 
they looked like torrent-worn boulders. This avenue once 
reached from Luxor to Karnak. Taking into account the 
distance (which is just two miles from Temple to Temple) 
and the short intervals at which the sphinxes are placed, 
there cannot originally have been fewer than five hundred 
of them ; that is to say, two hundred and fifty on each side 
of the road. 

Dismounting for a few minutes, we went into the 
Temple ; glanced round the open courtyard with its colon- 
nade of pillars ; peeped hurriedly into some ruinous side- 
chambers ; and then rode on. Our books told us that we 
had seen the small Temple of Rameses the Third. It 
would have been called large anywhere but at Karnak. 

I seem to remember the rest as if it had all happened in 
a dream. Leaving the small Temple, we turned towards 
the river, skirted the mud-walls of the native village, and 
approached the Great Tem.ple by way of its main entrance. 
Here we entered upon what had once been another great 
avenue of sphinxes, ram-headed, couchant on plinths deep 
cut with hieroglyphic legends, and leading up from some 
grand landing-place beside the Nile. 

And now the towers that we had first seen as we sailed 
by in the morning rose straight before us, magnificent in 
ruin, glittering to the sun, and relieved in creamy light 
against blue depths of sky. One was nearly perfect ; the 




THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 



THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 139 

Other, shattered as if by the shock of an earthquake, was 
still so lofty that an Arab clambering from block to block 
midway of its vast height looked no bigger than a squirrel. 

On the threshold of this tremendous portal we again dis- 
mounted. Shapeless crude-brick mounds, marking the 
limits of the ancient wall of circuit, reached far away on 
either side. An immense perspective of pillars and pylons 
leading up to a very great obelisk opened out before us. 
We went in, the great walls towering up like clifFs above 
our heads, and entered the P'irst Court. Here, in the 
midst of a large quadrangle open to the sky stands a 
solitary column, the last of a central avenue of twelve, 
some of which, disjointed by the shock, lie just as they fell, 
like skeletons of vertebrate monsters left stranded by the 
Flood. 

Crossing this Court in the glowing sunlight, we came to 
a mighty doorway between two more propylons — the 
doorway splendid with coloured bas-reliefs ; the propylons 
mere cataracts of fallen blocks piled up to right and left in 
grand confusion. The cornice of the doorway is gone. 
Only a jutting fragment of the lintel stone remains. That 
stone, when perfect, measured forty feet and ten inches 
across. The doorway must have been full a hundred feet 
in height. 

We went on. Leaving to the right a mutilated colossus 
engraven on arm and breast with the cartouche of Rameses 
II., we crossed the shade upon the threshold, and passed 
into the famous Hypostyle Hall of Seti the First. 

It is a place that has been much written about and often 
painted ; but of which no writing and no art can convey 



140 THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 

more than a dwarfed and pallid impression. To describe 
it, in the sense of building up a recognisable image by 
means of words, is impossible. The scale is too vast ; the 
effect too tremendous ; the sense of one's own dumbness, 
and littleness, and incapacity, too complete and crushing. 
It is a place that strikes you into silence ; that empties you, 
as it were, not only of words but of ideas. Nor is this a 
first effect only. Later in the year, when we came back 
down the river and moored close by, and spent long days 
among the ruins, I found I never had a word to say in the 
Great Hall. Others might measure the girth of those 
tremendous columns ; others might climb hither and 
thither, and find out points of view, and test the accuracy 
of Wilkinson and Mariette ; but I could only look, and be 
silent. 

Yet to look is something, if one can but succeed in 
remembering; and the Great Hall of Karnak is photo- 
graphed in some dark corner of my brain for as long as I 
have m.emory. I shut my eyes, and see it as if I were 
there — not all at once, as in a picture ; but bit by bit, as 
the eye takes note of large objects and travels over an 
extended field of vision. I stand once more among those 
mighty columns, which radiate into avenues from what- 
ever point one takes them. I see them swathed in coiled 
shadows and broad bands of light. I see them sculptured 
and painted with shapes of Gods and Kings, with blazon- 
ings of royal names, with sacrificial altars, and forms of 
sacred beasts, and emblems of wisdom and truth. The 
shafts of these columns are enormous. I stand at the foot 
of one — or of what seems to be the foot ; for the original 



THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 141 

pavement lies buried seven feet belov/. Six men standing 
vi^ith extended arms, finger-tip to finger-tip, could barely 
span it round. It casts a shadow twelve feet in breadth — 
such a shadow as might be cast by a tower. The capital 
that juts out so high above my head looks as if it might 
have been placed there to support the heavens. It is carved 
in the semblance of a full-blown lotus, and glows with un- 
dying colours — colours that are still fresh, though laid on 
by hands that have been dust these three thousand years and 
more. It would take not six men, but a dozen to measure 
round the curved lip of that stupendous lily. 

Such are the twelve central columns. The rest (one 
hundred and twenty-two in number) are gigantic too ; but 
smaller. Of the roof they once supported, only the beams 
remain. Those beams are stone — huge monoliths carved 
and painted, bridging the space from pillar to pillar, and 
patterning the trodden soil with bands of shadow. 

Looking up and down the central avenue, we see at the 
one end a flame-like obelisk; at the other, a solitaiy palm 
against a background of glowing mountain. To right, to 
left, showing transversely through long files of columns, we 
catch glimpses of colossal bas-reliefs lining the roofless 
walls in every direction. The King, as usual, figures in 
every group, and performs the customary acts of worship. 
The Gods receive and approve him. Half in light, half in 
shadow, these slender, fantastic forms stand out sharp, and 
clear, and colourless ; each figure some eighteen or twenty 
feet in height. They could scarcely have looked more 
weird when the great roof was in its place and perpetual 
twilight reigned. But it is difHcult to imagine the roof on, 



142 THE TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 

and the sky shut out. It all looks right as it is ; and one 
feels, somehow, that such columns should have nothing 
between them and the infinite blue depths of heaven. . . . 
It may be that the traveller who finds himself for the first 
time in the midst of a grove of WeUingtonia gigantea feels 
something of the same overwhelming sense of awe and 
wonder ; but the great trees, though they have taken three 
thousand years to grow, lack the pathos and the mystery 
that comes of human labour. They do not strike their 
roots through six thousand years of history. They have not 
been watered with the blood and tears of millions.-^ Their 
leaves know no sounds less musical than the singing of the 
birds, or the moaning of the night-wind as it sweeps over 
the highlands of Calaveros. But every breath that wanders 
down the painted aisles of Karnak seems to echo back the 
sighs of those who perished in the quarry, at the oar, and 
under the chariot-wheels of the conqueror. 

A Thousafid Miles up the Nile (London, zd ed., 1889). 

1 It has been estimated that every stone of these huge Pharaonic 
temples cost, at least, one human life. 



SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE. 

CHARLES YRIARTE. 

THE document by which the council of the munici- 
pality of Florence decided the erection of her 
Cathedral, in 1294, is an historic monument in which is 
reflected the generous spirit of the Florentines. 

" Considering that all the acts and works of a people who boast 
of an illustrious origin should bear the character of grandeur and 
wisdom, we order Arnolfo, director of the works of our commune, to 
make the model, or a design of the building, which shall replace the 
church of Santa Reparata. It shall display such magnificence that 
no industry nor human power shall surpass it. ... A government 
should undertake nothing unless in response to the desire of a heart 
more than generous, which expresses in its beatings the heart of all 
its citizens united in one common wish : it is from this point of 
view that the architect charged with the building of our cathedral 
must be regarded." 

It must be admitted that it would be difficult to express 
a more noble idea and a more elevated sentiment than 
this. 

The name of the Cathedral is evidently an allusion to 
the lily, the heraldic emblem of Florence, The ceremony 
of laying the first stone took place on September 8th, 1298 ; 



144 SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE. 

Pope Boniface VIII. was represented by his legate, Cardinal 
Pietro Valeriano. Arnolfo's plan was a Latin cross with 
three naves, each nave divided into four arcades with sharp 
pointed arches. In the centre of the cross, under the 
vault of the dome, was reserved a space enclosed by a 
ringhiera^ having open sides, with an altar in its axis, and 
in each of its little arms five rectangular chapels were 
placed. The walls were naked, and the architecture alone 
served for decoration ; the effect, however, was altogether 
imposing. 

Arnolfo did not finish his work; he died about 1230, 
leaving the church completed only as far as the capitals 
destined to support the arches. In 1332 Giotto was 
nominated to succeed him, and for about two hundred 
years the work was continued without interruption, under 
the direction of the most worthy men. 

It is to Giotto that we owe that extraordinary annex 
to the Duomo, so celebrated throughout the world under 
the name of Campanile; its foundation was laid in 1334, 
after the little church of San Zanobio was razed. It is 
85 metres high ; Giotto, however, had calculated 94 metres 
in his plan and intended to finish the square column with 
a pyramid, like the Campanile of Saint Mark's in Venice ; 
but he was unable to complete his work, and his successor, 
Taddeo Gaddi, suppressed this appendix. The Campanile 
has six divisions ; the first and the second, which are 
easily examined, are ornamented with sculpture executed 
by Andrea Pisano, after Giotto's designs. . . . 

Even at the risk of banality, the saying attributed to 
Charles V. when he entered Florence after the siege should 




SANTA MARIA DEL FIOKE. 



SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE. I45 

be mentioned here ; he paused before the Campanile, con- 
templated it for a long while, and then exclaimed : " They 
should make a case for the Campanile and exhibit it as 
a jewel." 

Mounting to the top of the tower, we can count, one 
by one, the domes, the towers, and the monuments, and 
gaze upon the beautiful landscape which surrounds the 
city of flowers. There are in this tower seven bells, the 
largest of which, cast in 1705 to replace the one that had 
been broken, does not weigh less than 15,860 pounds. 

Among the architects who succeeded Giotto, we must 
count the master of masters, who was, perhaps, the most 
incontestably illustrious of the Fifteenth Century archi- 
tects — Filippo Brunelleschi. It was in 1421 that he 
began the superb dome which crowns the Cathedral. This 
was his masterpiece, surpassing in audacity and harmony 
all the monuments of modern art. Everyone knows that 
this dome is double ; the interior casing is spherical, and 
between it and the exterior dome are placed the stairways, 
chains, counter-weights, and all the accessories of con- 
struction which render it enduring. It was only fifteen 
years after the death of the great Philippe that this dome 
was finished (146 1). It inspired Michael Angelo for 
Saint Peter's in Rome, and Leon Battista Alberti took it 
for his model in building the famous temple of Rimini 
which he left unfinished. Andrea del Verocchio, the beau- 
tiful sculptor of the Enfant au dauphin and the Tomb of 
the Medicis in the old sacristy, designed and executed the 
ball, and Giovanni di Bartolo completed the node on 
which the Cross stands. 

10 



146 SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE. 

The church contains several tombs, among others 
those of Giotto, commissioned to Benedetto da Maiano 
by Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that of the famous 
organist, Antonio Squarcialupi, a favourite of Lorenzo 
to whom " The Magnificent " wrote an epitaph. It is 
thought that the Poggio rests in Santa Maria del Fiore. 
The sarcophagus of Aldobrandino Ottobuoni is near the 
door of the Servi. 

I have said that the walls are naked, that is to say that 
architecture does not play a great part on them, but the 
building contains a number of works of the highest order 
by Donatello, Michelozzo, Ghiberti, della Robbia, San- 
sovino, Bandinelli, and Andrea del Castagno. It was by 
the door of the Servi that Dominico di Michelino on 
January 30, 1465, painted Dante, a tribute paid tardily to the 
memory of the prince of poets by the society of Florentines, 
who were none other than the workmen employed in the 
construction of the Cathedral. Under these arches where 
Boccaccio made his passionate words resound to the memory 
of the author of the D'lvina Comedia^ Michelino painted 
Dante clothed in a red toga and crowned with laurel, hold- 
ing in one hand a poem and with the other pointing 
to the symbolical circles. The inscription states that 
the execution of this fresco is due to one of Dante's 
commentators. Maestro Antonio, of the order of the 
Franciscans. 

Florence : V histoire — Les Medicis — Les humanistes — Les lettres — 
Les arts (Paris, 1881). 




GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. 



GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. 

MRS. OLIPHANT. 

OF all the beautiful things with which Giotto adorned 
his city, not one speaks so powerfully to the 
foreign visitor — the forestiere whom he and his fellows 
never took into account, though we occupy so large a 
space among the admirers of his genius nowadays — as 
the lovely Campanile which stands by the great Cathedral 
like the white royal lily beside the Mary of the Annuncia- 
tion, slender and strong and everlasting in its delicate 
grace. It is not often that a man takes up a new trade 
when he is approaching sixty, or even goes into a new 
path out of his familiar routine. But Giotto seems to have 
turned without a moment's hesitation from his paints and 
panels to the less easily-wrought materials of the builder 
and sculptor, without either faltering from the great enter- 
prise or doubting his own power to do it. His frescoes 
and altar-pieces and crucifixes, the work he had been so 
long accustomed to, and which he could execute pleasantly 
in his own workshop, or on the cool new walls of church 
or convent, with his trained school of younger artists round 
to aid him, were as different as possible from the elaborate 
calculations and measurements by which alone the lofty 
tower, straight and lightsome as a lily, could have sprung 
so high and stood so lightly against that Italian sky. No 
longer mere pencil or brush, but compasses and quaint 



148 GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. 

mathematical tools, figures not of art by arithmetic, elabo- 
rate weighing of proportions and calculations of quantity 
and balance, must have changed the character of those 
preliminary studies in which every artist must engage 
before he begins a great work. Like the poet or the 
romancist when he turns from the flowery ways of fiction 
and invention, where he is unincumbered by any restric- 
tions save those of artistic keeping and personal will, to 
the' grave and beaten path of history — the painter must 
have felt when he too turned from the freedom and poetry 
of art to this first scientific undertaking. The Cathedral 
was so far finished by this time, its front not scarred and 
bare as at present, but adorned with statues according to 
old Arnolfo's plan, who was dead more than thirty years 
before; but there was no belfry, no companion peal of 
peace and sweetness to balance the hoarse old vacca with 
its voice of iron. Giotto seems to have thrown himself 
into the work not only without reluctance but with enthu- 
siasm. The foundation-stone of the building was laid in 
July of that year, with all the greatness of Florence look- 
ing on ; and the painter entered upon his work at once, 
working out the most poetic effort of his life in marble 
and stone, among masons' chippings and the dust and 
blaze of the public street. At the same time he designed, 
though it does not seem sure whether he lived long enough 
to execute, a nev/ facade for the Cathedral, replacing 
Arnolfo's old statues by something better, and raising over 
the doorway the delicate tabernacle work which we see 
in Pocetti's picture of St. Antonino's consecration as bishop 
of St. Mark's. It would be pleasant to believe that while 
the foundations of the Campanile were being laid and the 



GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. I49 

ruder mason-work progressing, the painter began immedi- 
ately upon the more congenial labour, and made the face 
of the Duomo fair with carvings, with soft shades of those 
toned marbles which fit so tenderly into each other, and 
elaborate canopies as delicate as foam ; but of this there 
seems no certainty. Of the Campanile itself it is difficult 
to speak in ordinary words. The enrichments of the 
surface, which is covered by beautiful groups set in a 
graceful framework of marble, with scarcely a flat or 
unadorned spot from top to bottom, has been ever since 
the admiration of artists and of the world. But we con- 
fess, for our own part, that it is the structure itself that 
affords us that soft ecstasy of contemplation, sense of a 
perfection before which the mind stops short, silenced and 
filled with the completeness of beauty unbroken, which 
Art so seldom gives, though Nature often attains it by 
the simplest means, through the exquisite perfection of a 
flower or a' stretch of summer sky. Just as we have 
looked at a sunset, we look at Giotto's tower, poised far 
above in the blue air, in all the wonderful dawns and 
moonlights of Italy, swift darkness shadowing its white 
glory at the tinkle of the Ave Mary, and a golden glow 
of sunbeams accompanying the midday Angelus. Between 
the solemn antiquity of the old Baptistery and the historical 
gloom of the great Cathedral, it stands like the lily — if 
not, rather, like the great Angel himself hailing her who 
was blessed among women, and keeping up that lovely 
salutation, musical and sweet as its own beauty, for century 
after century, day after day. 

the Makers of Florence (London, 1876). 



GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

IN its first appeal to the stranger's eye there is some- 
thing unpleasing ; a mingling, as it seems to him, of 
over severity with over minuteness. But let him give it 
time, as he should to all other consummate art. I re- 
member well how, when a boy, I used to despise that 
Campanile, and think it meanly smooth and finished. 
But I have since lived beside it many a day, and looked 
out upon it from my windows by sunlight and moonlight, 
and I shall not soon forget how profound and gloomy 
appeared to me the savageness of the Northern Gothic, 
when I afterwards stood, for the first time, beneath the 
front of Salisbury. The contrast is indeed strange, if it 
could be quickly felt, between the rising of those grey 
walls out of their quiet swarded space, like dark and barren ■ 
rocks out of a green lake, with their rude, mouldering, 
rough-grained shafts, and triple lights, without tracery or 
other ornament than the martins' nests in the height of 
them, and that bright, smooth, sunny surface of glowing 
jasper, those spiral shafts and fairy traceries, so white, so 
faint, so crystalline, that their slight shapes are hardly 
traced in darkness on the pallor of the Eastern sky, that 
serene height of mountain alabaster, coloured like a morn- 



GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. I51 

ing cloud, and chased like a sea shell. And if this be, 
as I believe it, the model and mirror of perfect architecture, 
is there not something to be learned by looking back to 
the early life of him who raised it ? I said that the Power 
of human mind had its growth in the Wilderness ; much 
more must the love and the conception of that beauty, 
whose every line and hue we have seen to be, at the best, 
a faded image of God's daily work, and an arrested ray 
of some star of creation, be given chiefly in the places 
which He has gladdened by planting there the fir-tree and 
the pine. Not within the walls of Florence, but among 
the far away fields of her lilies, was the child trained who 
was to raise that head-stone of Beauty above the towers 
of watch and war. Remember all that he became; count 
the sacred thoughts with which he filled Italy ; ask those 
who followed him v/hat they learned at his feet ; and 
when you have numbered his labours, and received their 
testimony, if it seem to you that God had verily poured 
out upon this His servant no common nor restrained 
portion of His Spirit, and that he was indeed a king 
among the children of men, remember also that the legend 
upon his crown was that of David's : — " I took thee from 
the sheepcote, and from following the sheep." 

T^he Seven Lamps of Architecture (London, 1849). 



THE HOUSE OF JACQUES CCEUR 
IN BRUGES. 

AD. BERTY. 

CERTAINLY Jacques Coeur, that citizen of humble 
birth, who, by his merit reached the highest dignity 
of state at an epoch when aristocracy reigned supreme, 
this man of genius, who, while creating a maritime commerce 
for France, amassed so great a fortune for himself that he 
was able to help towards the deliverance of his own country 
in supporting at his own expense four armies at the same 
time, was not one of the least important figures of the 
Fifteenth Century. Posterity has not always been just to 
this illustrious upstart : he should be ranked immediately after 
Jeanne d'Arc, for the sword of the Maid of Domremy 
would, perhaps, have been powerless to chase the enemy 
from the soil (which a cowardly king did not think of re- 
pulsing), without the wise economy and the generous sacri- 
fices of him, who, at a later period, was abandoned by the 
king to the rapacity of his courtiers with that same ignoble 
ingratitude which he had shown to the sa'tnte Uhertrice of 
the great nation over which he was so unworthy to rule. 

Jacques CcEur was the son of a furrier, or according to 
some authorities, a goldsmith of Bruges. He was probably 
following his father's business when his intelligence and 



THE HOUSE OF JACQUES CCEUR IN BRUGES. 153 

talents brought him mto the notice of Charles VII., who 
had been forced to take refuge in the capital of Berry on 
account of the English conquests. The king appointed 
him to the mint, then made him master of this branch of 
administration, and, finally, argentier^ 3. title equivalent to 
superintendent of finance. CcEur, in his new and brilliant 
position, did not abandon commerce to which he owed his 
fortune j his ships continued to furrow the seas, and three 
hundred clerks aided him in bartering European products for 
the silks and spices of the East and in realizing a fortune. 
Always fortunate in his enterprises, ennobled 1 by the king 
in 1440, and charged by him with many important political 
missions, he probably did not know how to resist the vertigo 
which always seizes those of mean origin who attain great 
eminence. He exhibited an extraordinary luxury, whose 
splendours humiliated the pride of the noble courtiers, 
excited their hatred and envy, and contributed to his ruin. 
With little regard for the great services which he had 
rendered to the country, such as, for example, the gift of 
200,000 crowns in gold at the time of the expedition of 
Normandy, the nobles only saw in the magnificent argentier 
an unworthy gambler, who should be deprived of his immense 
wealth 2 for their profit. For this purpose they organized a 
cabal. Cceur was charged with a multitude of crimes : he 
was accused of having poisoned Agnes Sorel, who had made 

1 The arms of Cceur were what are called parlantes : azure, fess or, 
charged with three shells or (recalling those of St. James his patron), 
accompanied by three hearts, gules, in allusion to his name. 

* The fortune of Jacques Cceur became proverbial : they said : 
** Riche comme Jacques Casur.'"'' 



154 THE HOUSE OF JACQUES CCEUR IN BRUGES. 

him her testamentary executor, of having altered money, 
and of various other peculations ; he was also reproached for 
having extorted money for various purposes in the name of 
the king. . . . 

The sentence of Jacques Coeur was not entirely executed ; 
he was not banished, but, on the contrary, was imprisoned 
in the Convent des Cordeliers de Beaucaire. Aided by one 
of his clerks, Jean de Village, who had married his niece, he 
made his escape and went to Rome, where Pope Calixtus 
III., at that moment preparing an expedition against the 
Turks, gave him command of a flotilla. Coeur then de- 
parted, but, falling ill on the way, he disembarked at Chio, 
where he died in 146 1. His body was buried in the church 
of the Cordeliers in that island. 

Of the different houses which Jacques Coeur possessed, 
the one considered among the most beautiful in all France, 
exists almost intact, and is still known under the name of 
the Maison de Jacques Cceur^ although it now serves for a 
hall of justice and mayoralty. This house, or rather this 
hotel^ was built between the years 1443 and 1453, ^^^ '^'^^^ 
a sum equal to 215,000 francs of our money. For its con- 
struction, Coeur, having bought one of the towers of the 
ramparts of Bruges, commonly called Tour de la chauss'ee^ 
from the fief of this name, built on a level with it another 
and more beautiful tower, and these two towers served as a 
beginning for the mano'ir^ which was called, in consequence, 
the Hotel de la chauss'ee. In building it they used stones 
taken from the old Roman walls of the town, which were 
on the site of the new hotel^ and which had already been 
pulled down by virtue of a charter given by Louis VIII. 




THE HOUSE OF JACQUES COEUR. 



THE HOUSE OF JACQUES CCEUR IN BRUGES. 155 

in 1224, by which, permission had been granted for build- 
ing upon the ramparts and fortifications. At the time of 
the revision of the law-suit of Jacques Cceur under Louis 
XL the hotel was given back to his heirs, who in 1552 sold 
it to Claude de I'Aubespine, secretary of state. By a 
descendant of the latter it was ceded to Colbert in 1679 j 
Colbert sold it again to the town of Bruges on January 
30, 1682, for the sum of 33,000 livres. Jacques Coeur's 
house was therefore destined to become a hotel-de-ville^ and, 
as we have said, still exists to-day. 

The plan of the building is an irregular pentagon, com- 
posed of different bodies of buildings joined without any 
symmetry, according to the general disposition of almost 
all mediaeval civil and military buildings. The large towers 
are Jacques Coeur's original ones. One was entirely recon- 
structed by him with the exception of the first story, which 
is of Roman work, as the layers of brick and masonry 
indicate; the other, on the contrary, received only its crown 
and a new interior construction, and, like the first, was 
flanked by a tower destined to serve as a cage for the stair- 
way. The court of honour is vast, and arranged so that it 
was easy to communicate with the different parts of the 
hotel. 

The facade is composed of a pavilion flanked by two 
wings. Following an arrangement borrowed from military 
architecture, two doors were contrived, the little one for 
the foot-passengers and the large one, which was the door 
of honour, through which the Cavaliers entered. Both 
had pointed arches and were ornamented with an archivolt 
with crockets. One of them still possessed, until about 



156 THE HOUSE OF JACQUES CCEUR IN BRUGES. 

a dozen years ago, its ancient sculptured panels and orna- 
mental iron-work. Above these doors is a large niche 
with very rich ornamentation, which originally sheltered 
the equestrian statue of Charles VII. On its right and 
left is a false window, in which you see the statue of 
a man-servant in the one and that of a maid-servant in the 
other, both in the costume of the period. Above this 
niche the wall is pierced by a large window with four panes, 
whose tracery reproduces hearts, armes parlantes of the 
proprietor, and a fleur-de-lis^ a sign of his recognition by 
King Charles. A cornice of foliage forms the top of the 
wall of the pavilion, which is crowned by a very high 
roof with four sloping and concave sides. Upon the front 
and back faces of this roof is a large skylight-window and 
on its lateral faces, a stock of chimneys. On the summit 
of the roof is an imposing ridge which ends with two long 
spikes. 

The back of the pavilion is exactly like the front, with 
the exception of a statue of Coeur corresponding to that 
of the king. To the right of the pavilion there rises 
an octagonal campanile of great elegance j at its base is 
a balustrade in whose open-work runs a phylactery, carry- 
ing the motto, which is frequently repeated in the building 
and which characterizes perfectly him who adopted it : 

A 'vaillans cceurs ^ r'ten <V impossible. 

Notwithstanding the mutilations to which the house of 
Jacques Coeur has been condemned by its fate, it is certainly 
one of the most interesting and best preserved of all the civil 

^ The word cceurs is indicated by hearts. 



THE HOUSE OF JACQUES COEUR IN BRUGES. 157 

buildings of the Middle Ages. A vast amount of informa- 
tion regarding the intimate life of the people, which has so 
great an attraction for the archseologist, is to be found here. 
If the fact that the study of buildings should be the 
inseparable companion to that of history was less evident, 
the house of Jacques Coeur would afford us an opportunity 
to demonstrate the truth ; in reality, when we have studied 
this building we certainly gain a much clearer idea of the 
manners of Charles VII.'s reign than could be obtained 
from a host of lecturers upon history. 

Jules Gailhabaud, Monuments anctens et modernes (Paris, 1865). 



WAT PHRA KAO. 

CARL BOCK. 

THE first glimpse of Siam which the traveller obtains 
at Paknam is a fair sample of what is to be seen 
pretty well throughout the country. As Constantinople 
is called the City of Mosques, so Bangkok may, with even 
more reason, be termed the City of Temples. And not 
in Bangkok only and its immediate neighbourhood, but in 
the remotest parts of the country, wherever a few people 
live now, or ever have lived, a Wat with its image, or 
collection of images, of Buddha, is to be found, surrounded 
by numberless phrachedees, those curious structures which 
every devout Buddhist — and all Buddhists are in one 
sense or another devout — erects at every turn as a means 
of gaining favour with the deity, or of making atonement 
for his sins. On the rich plains, in the recesses of the 
forests, on the tops of high mountains, in all directions, 
these monuments of universal allegiance to a faith which, 
more perhaps than any other, claims a devotee in almost 
every individual inhabitant of the lands over which it has 
once obtained sway, are to be found. The labour, the 
time, and the wealth lavished upon these structures are 
beyond calculation. . . . 




WAT PHRA KAO. 



WAT PHRA KAO. 159 

The work which, in popular estimation at least, will 
make his Majesty's reign most memorable in Siam, is the 
completion and dedication of the great royal temple, Phra 
Sri Ratana Satsadaram, or, as it is usually called, Wat Phra 
Kao. The erection of this magnificent pile of buildings 
was commenced by Phra Puttha Yot Fa Chulalok, " as a 
temple for the Emerald Buddha, the palladium of the 
capital, for the glory of the king, and as an especial work 
of royal piety." This temple was inaugurated with a 
grand religious festival in the year Maseng, 7th of the 
cycle, 1147 (a. d. 1785), but, having been very hastily 
got ready for the celebration of the third anniversary of the 
foundation of the capital, it was incomplete, only the 
church and library being finished. Various additions were 
made from time to time, but the Wat remained in an 
unfinished state until the present king came to the throne. 
The vow to complete the works was made on Tuesday, 
the 23rd of December, 1879. The works were com- 
menced during the next month and completed on Monday, 
the 17th of April, 1882, a period of two years, three 
months, and twenty days. Thus it was reserved for King 
Chulalonkorn, at an enormous outlay, entirely defrayed 
out of his private purse, and by dint of great exertions on 
the part of those to whom the work was immediately 
entrusted, to complete this structure, and, on the hundredth 
anniversaiy of the capital of Siam, to give the city its 
crowning glory. 

The work was placed under the direct superintendence 
of the king's brothers, each of whom had a particular part 
of the work allotted to him. One, for instance, relaid the 



l6o WAT PHRA KAO, 

marble pavement, and decorated the Obosot with pictures 
of the sacred elephant ; while a second renewed the stone 
inscriptions inside the Obosot ; a third laid down a brass 
pavement in the Obosot ; a fourth undertook to restore 
all the inlaid pearl work ; another undertook the work 
of repairing the ceiling, paving, and wall-decoration, and 
made three stands for the seals of the kingdom ; another 
changed the decayed roof-beams ; another covered the 
great phrachedee with gold tiles — the effect of which in 
the brilliant sunlight is marvellously beautiful — and re- 
paired and gilded all the small phrachedees ; another 
renewed and repaired and redecorated all the stone orna- 
ments and flower-pots in the temple-grounds, and made 
the copper-plated and gilt figures of demons, and purchased 
many marble statues ; two princes divided between them 
the repairs of the cloisters, renewing the roof where re- 
quired, painting, gilding, paving with stone, and complet- 
ing the capitals of columns, and so on. Thus, by division 
of labour, under the stimulus of devotion to the religion 
of the country, and of brotherly loyalty to the king, the 
great work was at length completed, after having been 
exactly one hundred years in course of construction. On 
the 2ist of April, 1882, the ceremony of final dedication 
was performed, with the greatest pomp, and amid general 
rejoicings. 

Under the name " Wat Phra Kao " are included various 
buildings covering a large area of ground, which is sur- 
rounded by walls decorated with elaborate frescoes. In 
the centre is a temple, called the Phra Marodop, built 
in the form of a cross, where on festive occasions the 



WAT PHRA KAO. l6l 

king goes to hear a sermon from the prince-high-priest. 
The walls of this building are richly decorated with 
inlaid work, and the ceiling painted with a chaste design 
in blue and gold. The most striking feature, however, 
is the beautiful work in the ebony doors, which are elab- 
orately inlaid with mother-of-pearl figures representing 
Thewedas, bordered by a rich scroll. Behind this chapel- 
royal is the great phrachedee, called the Sri Ratana 
Phrachedee, entirely covered with gilt tiles, which are 
specially made for the purpose in Germany to the order 
of H. R. H. Krom Mun Aditson Udom Det. 

There are several other large buildings in the temple- 
grounds, but the structure in which the interest of the 
place centres is the Obosot, which shelters the famous 
" Emerald Buddha," a green jade figure of matchless 
beauty, which was found at Kiang Hai in a. d. 1436, 
and, after various vicissitudes of fortune, was at last placed 
in safety in the royal temple at Bangkok. This image is, 
according to the season of the year, differently attired in 
gold ornaments and robes. The Emerald Buddha is 
raised so high up, at the very summit of a high altar, that 
it is somewhat difficult to see it, especially as light is not 
over plentiful, the windows being generally kept closely 
shuttered. For the convenience of visitors, however, the 
attendants will for a small fee open one or two of the 
heavy shutters, which are decorated on the outside with 
gilt figures of Thewedas in contorted attitudes. When 
at last the sun's rays are admitted through the "dim 
religious light," and the beam of brightness shines on the 
resplendent figure — enthroned above a gorgeous array 



l62 WAT PHRA KAO. 

of coloured vases, with real flowers and their waxen imita- 
tions, of gold, silver, and bronze representations of Buddha, 
of Bohemian glassware, lamps, and candlesticks, with here 
and there a flickering taper still burning, and surrounded 
with a profusion of many-storied umbrellas, emblems of 
the esteem in which the gem is held — the scene is re- 
markably beautiful, and well calculated to have a lasting 
effect on the minds of those who are brought up to see in 
the calm, solemn, and dignified form of Buddha the repre- 
sentation of all that is good here, and the symbol of all 
happiness hereafter. The floor of the Obosot is of tes- 
sellated brass, and the walls are decorated with the usual 
perspectiveless frescoes, representing scenes in Siamese or 
Buddhist history. 

It is in this Obosot that the semi-annual ceremony of 
Tiinani^ or drinking the water of allegiance, takes place, 
when the subjects of Siam, through their representatives, 
and the princes and high officers of state, renew or 
confirm their oath of allegiance. The ceremony consists 
of drinking water sanctified by the priests, and occurs 
twice a year — on the third day of the waxing of the 
Siamese fifth month (i. e., the ist of April), and on the 
thirteenth day of the waning of the Siamese tenth month 
(i. e., the 2ist of September). 

The foregoing description gives but a faint idea of this 
sacred and historic edifice, which will henceforth be 
regarded as a symbol of the rule of the present Siamese 
dynasty, and the completion of which will mark an epoch 
in Siamese history. 

'temples and Elephants (London, 1884). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

THE exterior of the Cathedral of Toledo is far less 
ornate than that of the Cathedral of Burgos : it 
has no efflorescence of ornaments, no arabesques, and no 
collarette of statues enlivening the porches ; it has solid 
buttresses, bold and sharp angles, a thick facing of stone, 
a stolid tower, with no delicacies of the Gothic jewel-work, 
and it is covered entirely with a reddish tint, like that of a 
piece of toast, or the sunburnt skin of a pilgrim from Pales- 
tine ; as if to make up the loss, the interior is hollowed and 
sculptured like a grotto of stalactites. 

The door by which we entered is of bronze, and bears 
the following inscription : Antonio Tjurreno del arte de oro y 
plata^ faciehat esta media puerta. The first impression is 
most vivid and imposing ; five naves divide the church : the 
middle one is of an immeasurable height, and the others 
beside it seem to bow their heads and kneel in token of 
admiration and respect ; eighty-eight pillars, each as large as a 
tower and each composed of sixteen spindle-shaped columns 
bound together, sustain the enormous mass of the building ; 
a transept cuts the large nave between the choir and the 
high altar, and forms the arms of the cross. The archi- 
tecture of the entire building is homogeneous and perfect, 



l64 THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 

a very rare virtue in Gothic cathedrals, w^hich have gener- 
ally been built at different periods ; the original plan has 
been adhered to from one end to the other, with the excep- 
tion of a few^ arrangements of the chapels, w^hich, hov^ever, 
do not interfere w^ith the harmony of the general effect. 
The windows, glittering with hues of emerald, sapphire, 
and ruby set in the ribs of stone, worked like rings, sift in 
a soft and mysterious light which inspires religious ecstasy ; 
and, when the sun is too strong, blinds of spartium are let 
down over the windows, and through the building is then 
diffused that cool half-twilight which makes the churches 
of Spain so favourable for meditation and prayer. 

The high altar, or retablo^ alone might pass for a church ; 
it is an enormous accumulation of small columns, niches, 
statues, foliage, and arabesques, of which the most minute 
description would give but a faint idea ; all this sculpture, 
which extends up to the vaulted roof and all around the 
sanctuary, is painted and gilded with unimaginable wealth. 
The warm and tawny tones of the antique gold, illumined 
by the rays and patches of light interrupted in their passage 
by the tracery and projections of the ornaments, stand out 
superbly and produce the most admirable effects of grandeur 
and richness. The paintings, with their backgrounds of 
gold which adorn the panels of this altar, equal in richness 
of colour the most brilliant Venetian canvases ; this union 
of colour with the severe and almost hieratic forms of 
mediaeval art is rarely found ; some of these paintings might 
be taken for Giorgione's first manner. 

Opposite to the high altar is placed the choir, or si/Ieria, 
according to the Spanish custom ; it is composed of three 




THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 165 

rows of stalls in sculptured wood, hollowed and carved in 
a marvellous manner with historical, allegorical, and sacred 
bas-reliefs. Gothic Art, on the borderland of the Renais- 
sance, has never produced anything more pure, more per- 
fect, or better drawn. This work, the details of which 
are appalling, has been attributed to the patient chisels of 
Philippe de Bourgogne and Berruguete. The archbishop's 
stall, which is higher than the rest, is shaped like a throne 
and marks the centre of the choir j this prodigious carpentry 
is crowned by gleaming columns of brown jasper, and on 
the entablature stand alabaster figures, also by Philippe de 
Bourgogne and Berruguete, but in a freer and more supple 
style, elegant and admirable in effect. Enormous bronze 
reading-desks supporting gigantic missals, large spartium 
mats, and two colossal organs placed opposite to each 
other, one to the right and one to the left, complete the 
decorations. . . . 

The Mozarabic Chapel, which is still in existence, is 
adorned with Gothic frescoes of the highest interest : the 
subjects are the combats between the Toledans and the 
Moors ; they are in a state of perfect preservation, their 
colours are as bright as if they had been laid on yesterday, 
and by means of them an archaeologist would gain a vast 
amount of information regarding arms, costumes, accoutre- 
ments, and architecture, for the principal fresco represents a 
view of old Toledo, which is, doubtless, veiy accurate. In 
the lateral frescoes the ships which brought the Arabs to 
Spain are painted in detail ; a seaman might gather much 
useful information from them regarding the obscure history 
of the mediaeval navy. The arms of Toledo — five stars, 



l66 THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 

sable on a field, argent — are repeated in several places in 
this low-vaulted chapel, which, according to the Spanish 
fashion, is enclosed by a grille of beautiful workmanship. 

The Chapel of the Virgin, which is entirely faced with 
beautifully polished porphyry, jasper, and yellow and violet 
breccia^ is of a richness surpassing the splendours of the 
Thousand and One Nights ; many relics are preserved here, 
among them a reliquary presented by Saint Louis, which 
contains a piece of the True Cross. 

To recover our breath, let us make, if you please, the 
tour of the cloisters, whose severe yet elegant arcades 
surround beautiful masses of verdure, kept green, notwith- 
standing the devouring heat of this season, by the shadow 
of the Cathedral ; the walls of this cloister are covered 
with frescoes in the style of Vanloo, by a painter named 
Bayeu. These compositions are simple and pleasing in 
colour, but they do not harmonize with the style of the 
building, and probably supplant ancient works damaged by 
centuries, or found too Gothic for the people of good taste 
in that time. It is very fitting to place a cloister near a 
church ; it affords a happy transition from the tranquillity 
of the sanctuary to the turmoil of the city. You can go 
to it to walk about, to dream, or to reflect, without being 
forced to join in the prayers and ceremonies of a cult ; 
Catholics go to the temple, Christians remain more fre- 
quently in the cloisters. This attitude of mind has been 
perfectly understood by that marvellous psychologist the 
Catholic Church. In religious countries the Cathedral is 
always the most ornamented, richest, most gilded, and 
most florid of all buildings in the town ; it is there that 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 167 

one finds the coolest shade and the deepest peace j the 
music there is better than in the theatre ; and it has no 
rival in pomp of display. It is the central point, the 
magnetic spot, like the Opera in Paris. We Catholics of 
the North, with our Vottairean temples, have no idea of the 
luxury, elegance, and comfort of the Spanish cathedrals; 
these churches are furnished and animated, and have 
nothing of that glacial, desert-like appearance of ours ; the 
faithful can live in them on familiar terms with their 
God. 

The sacristies and rooms of the Chapter in the Cathe- 
dral of Toledo have a more than royal magnificence; 
nothing could be more noble and picturesque than these 
vast halls decorated with that solid and severe luxury of 
which the Church alone has the secret. Here are rare 
carpentry- work in carved walnut or black oak, portieres of 
tapestry or Indian damask, curtains of brocatelle^ with 
sumptuous folds, figured brocades, Persian carpets, and 
paintings of fresco. We will not try to describe them 
in detail ; we will only speak of one room ornamented 
with admirable frescoes depicting religious subjects in the 
German style of which the Spaniards have made such 
successful imitations, and which have been attributed to 
Berruguete's nephew, if not to Berruguete himself, for 
these prodigious geniuses followed simultaneously three 
branches of art. We will also mention an enormous 
ceiling by Luca Giordano, where is collected a whole 
world of angels and allegorical figures in the most rapidly 
executed foreshortening which produce a singular optical 
illusion. From the middle of the roof springs a ray of light 



l68 THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 

SO wonderfully painted on the flat surface that it seems to 
fall perpendicularly on your head, no matter from which 
side you view it. 

It is here that they keep the treasure, that is to say 
the beautiful copes of brocade, cloth of gold and silver 
damask, the marvellous laces, the silver-gilt reliquaries, 
the monstrances of diamonds, the gigantic silver candle- 
sticks, the embroidered banners, — all the material and 
accessories for the representation of that sublime Catholic 
drama which we called the Mass. 

In the cupboards in one of the rooms is preserved the 
wardrobe of the Holy Virgin, for cold, naked statues of 
marble or alabaster do not suffice for the passionate piety 
of the Southern race ; in their devout transport they load 
the object of their worship with ornaments of extravagant 
richness ; nothing is good enough, brilliant enough, or costly 
enough for them ; under this shower of precious stones, the 
form and material of the figure disappear : nobody cares 
about that. The main thing is that it should be an impos- 
sibility to hang another pearl in the ears of the marble 
idol, to insert another diamond in its golden crown, or to 
trace another leaf of gem.s in the brocade of its dress. 

Never did an ancient queen, — not even Cleopatra who 
drank pearls, — never did an empress of the Lower Empire, 
never did a Venetian courtesan in the time of Titian, 
possess more brilliant jewels nor a richer wardrobe than 
Our Lady of Toledo. They showed us some of her 
robes : one of them left you no idea as to the material of 
which it was made, so entirely was it covered with flowers 
and arabesques of seed-pearls, among which there were 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 169 

Others of a size beyond all price and several rows of black 
pearls, which are of almost unheard-of rarity ; suns and 
stars of jewels also constellate this precious gown, which is 
so brilliant that the eye can scarcely bear its splendour, and 
which is worth many millions of francs. 

We ended our visit by ascending the bell-tower, the 
summit of which is reached by a succession of ladders, 
sufficiently steep and not very reassuring. About half way 
up, in a kind of store-room, through which you pass, we 
saw a row of gigantic marionettes^ coloured and dressed in 
the fashion of the last century, and used in I don't know 
what kind of a procession similar to that of Tarascon. 

The magnificent view which is seen from the tall 
spire amply repays you for all the fatigue of the ascent. 
The whole town is presented before you with all the 
sharpness and precision of M. Pelet's cork-models, so 
much admired at the last Exposition de Pindustrie. This 
comparison is doubtless very prosaic and unpicturesque ; 
but really I cannot find a better, nor a more accurate one. 
The dwarfed and misshapen rocks of blue granite, which 
encase the Tagus and encircle the horizon of Toledo on 
one side, add still more to the singularity of the landscape, 
inundated and dominated by crude, pitiless, blinding light, 
which no reflections temper and which is increased by the 
cloudless and vapourless sky quivering with white heat like 
iron in a furnace. 

Voyage en Espagne (Paris, new ed. 1865). 



THE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

JULES LOISELEUR. 

CHAMBORD is the Versailles of the feudal mon- 
archy ; it was to the Chateau de Blois, that central 
residence of the Valois, what Versailles was to the Tuileries; 
it was the country-seat of Royalty. Tapestries from Arras, 
Venetian mirrors, curiously sculptured chests, crystal chan- 
deliers, massive silver furniture, and miracles of all the arts, 
amassed in this palace during eight reigns and dispersed in a 
single day by the breath of the Revolution, can never be col- 
lected again save under one condition : that there should be 
a sovereign sufficiently powerful and sufficiently artistic, 
sufficiently concerned about the glory and the memories of 
the ancient monarchy to make of Chambord what has been 
made out of the Louvre and Versailles — a museum con- 
secrated to all the intimate marvels, to all the curiosities of 
the Arts of the Renaissance, at least to all those with .which 
the sovereigns were surrounded, something like the way the 
Hotel de Cluny exhibits royal life. 

It has often been asked why Francois I., to whom the 
banks of the Loire presented many marvellous sites, selected 
a wild and forsaken spot in the midst of arid plains for the 
erection of the strange building which he planned. This 
peculiar choice has been attributed to that prince's passion 



THE CHATEAU DE "CHAMBORD. I/I 

for the chase and in memory of his amours with the beauti- 
ful Comtesse de Thoury, chatelaine in that neighbourhood, 
before he ascended the throne. 

Independently of these motives, which doubtless counted 
greatly in his selection, perhaps the very wildness of this 
place, this distance from the Loire, which reminded him too 
much of the cares of Royalty, was a determining reason. 
Kings, like private individuals, and even more than they, 
experience the need at times of burying themselves, and 
therefore make a hidden and far-away nest where they may 
be their own masters and live to please themselves. More- 
over, Chambord, with its countless rooms, its secret stair- 
ways, and its subterranean passages, seems to have been 
built for a love which seeks shadow and mystery. At the 
same time that he hid Chambord in the heart of the uncul- 
tivated plains of the Sologne, Francois I. built in the midst 
of the Bois de Boulogne a chateau^ where, from time to 
time, he shut himself up with learned men and artists, and 
to which the courtiers, who were positively forbidden there, 
gave the name of Madrid, in memory of the prison in 
which their master had suffered. Chambord, like Madrid, 
was not a prison : it was a retreat. 

That sentiment of peculiar charm which is attached to 
the situation of Chambord will be felt by every artist who 
visits this strange realization of an Oriental dream. At the 
end of a long avenue of poplars breaking through thin 
underbrush which bears an illustrious name, like all the 
roads to this residence, you see, little by little, peeping and 
mounting upward from the earth, a fairy building, which, 
rising in the midst of arid sand and heath, produces the most 



172 THE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

Striking and unexpected effect. A genie of the Orient, 
a poet has said, must have stolen it from the country 
of sunshine to hide it in the country of fog for the amours 
of a handsome prince. At the summit of an imposing 
mass of battlements, of which the first glance discerns 
neither the style nor the order, above terraces with orna- 
mental balustrades, springs up, as if from a fertile and inex- 
haustible soil, an incredible vegetation of sculptured stone, 
worked in a thousand different ways. It is a forest of 
campaniles, chimneys, sky-lights, domes, and towers, in 
lace-work and open-work, twisted according to a caprice 
which excludes neither harmony nor unity, and which orna- 
ments with the Gothic F the salamanders and also the 
mosaics of slate imitating marble, — a singular poverty in 
the midst of so much wealth. The beautiful open-worked 
tower of the large staircase dominates the entire mass of 
pinnacles and steeples, and bathes in the blue sky its co- 
lossal fleur-de-lis, the last point of the highest pinnacle 
among pinnacles, the highest crown among all crowns. . . . 

We must take Chambord for what it is, an ancient 
Gothic chateau dressed out in great measure according to 
the fashion of the Renaissance. 

In no other place is the transition from one style to 
another revealed in a way so impressive and naive ; nowhere 
else does the brilliant butterfly of the Renaissance show 
itself more deeply imprisoned in the heavy Gothic chrysalis. 
If Chambord, by its plan which is essentially French and 
feudal, by its enclosure flanked with towers, and by the 
breadth of its heavy mass, slavishly recalls the mediaeval 
mafioirs, by its lavish profusion of ornamentation it suggests 




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THE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 173 

the creations of the Sixteenth Century as far as the begin- 
ning of the roofs ; it is Gothic as far as the platform ; and 
it belongs to the Renaissance when it comes to the roof 
itself. It may be compared to a rude French knight of 
the Fourteenth Century, who is wearing on his cuirass 
some fine Italian embroideries, and on his head the plumed 
felt of Francois I., — assuredly an incongruous costume, 
but not without character. . . . 

The chateau should be entered by one of the four doors 
which open in the centre of the donjon. Nothing is more 
fantastic, and, at the same time, magnificent than the 
spectacle which greets the eye. It seems more like one 
of those fairy palaces which we see at the Opera, than a 
real building. Neglect and nakedness give it an additional 
value and double its immensity. On entering this vast 
solitude of stone, we are seized with that respectful silence 
which involuntarily strikes us under high and solitary 
vaults. In the centre of the vast Salle des Gardes, which 
occupies the entire ground-floor, and to which the four 
towers of the donjon give the form of the Greek cross, 
rises a monumental stairway which divides this hall into 
four equal parts, each being fifty feet long and thirty feet 
broad. This bold conception justifies its celebrity : the 
stairway at Chambord is in itself a monument. The 
staircase, completely isolated and open-worked, is com- 
posed of posts which follow the winding. Two flights of 
stairs, one above the other, unfold in helices and pass 
alternately one over the other without meeting. This will 
explain how two persons could ascend at the same time 
without meeting, yet perceiving each other at intervals. 



174 THE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

Even while looking at this, it is difficult to conceive this 
arrangement. These two helices, which are placed above 
each other and which turn over and over each other with- 
out ever uniting, have exactly the curve of a double 
corkscrew. I believe that no other comparison can give 
a more exact idea of this celebrated work which has 
exhausted the admiration and the eulogy of all the connais- 
seurs. "What merits the greatest praise," writes Blondel 
in his Le^07is d' architecture^ " is the ingenious disposition 
of that staircase of double flights, crossing each other and 
both common to the same newel. One cannot admire 
too greatly the lightness of its arrangement, the boldness 
of its execution, and the delicacy of its ornaments, — per- 
fection which astonishes and makes it difficult to conceive 
how any one could imagine a design so picturesque and 
how it could be put into execution." The author of 
Cinq Mars taking up this same idea says : " It is difficult 
to conceive how the plan was drawn and how the orders 
were given to the workmen : it seems a fugitive thought, 
a brilliant idea which must have taken material form 
suddenly — a realized dream." . . . 

In going through the high halls and long corridors 
which lead from one chapel to the other, one likes to 
restore in imagination the rich furniture, the tapestries, 
the glazed tiles of faience, and the ceilings incrusted with 
tin fleur-de-lis, which formed its decoration. Each gallery 
was filled with frescoes by Jean Cousin and the principal 
works of Leonardo da Vinci. . . . The breath of the 
Revolution has scattered and destroyed all these rarities. 
For fifteen days the frippers ran from all points of the 



THE CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD. 175 

province to divide the paintings, the precious enamels, 
the chests of oak and ebony, the sculptured pulpits, and the 
high-posted beds covered with armorial hangings. They 
sold at auction all the souvenirs of the glory of the mon- 
archy. What they could not sell, they burned. . . . 

When we descend the noble staircase which Francois I. 
ordered, which an unknown artist executed, and which 
deserves to be credited to Primaticcio, it is impossible not 
to look back upon the Past. What illustrious feet have 
trod, what eyes have beheld these marvels ! What hands, 
now cold, charming hands of queens, or courtesans more 
powerful than those queens, and rude hands of warriors, 
or statesmen, have traced on these white stones names 
celebrated in that day, but now effaced from the walls, 
as they are each day more and more effaced from the 
memory of men ! The wheel of Time, which broke in 
its revolution, has only left enough in this chateau for us 
to observe and reconstruct in imagination personages great 
enough to harmonize with such grandeur, and to excite 
in us that pious respect which must always be attached 
to everything about to end. Another turn of the wheel 
and ruin will begin. " Ce chateau" a poet has said, '''- est 
Jrappe de malediction" ^ . . . 

To-day, and during two Revolutions, the chief of the 
eldest branch of the Bourbons has remained the master 
of Chambord. Between this exiled master and this deserted 
castle there is an intimate and sad relation which will 
touch the most unsympathetic heart. Each stone that 
falls in the grass-grown court without a human ear to take 
1 Chateaubriand, La Vie de Ranee. 



176 THE CHAtEAU DE CHAMBORD. 

note of the noise, — is it not the parallel of an obliterated 
memory, a hope that is ever weakening ? In the absence 
of this master, who, doubtless, will never return, the old 
chateau falls into the shadov/ and silence which belong to 
fallen majesty. It awaits in this grave and slightly morose 
sorrow those great vicissitudes, which are imposed on 
stones, as on men, that the Future has in store. 

Les Residences royales de la Loire (Paris, 1863). 



THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

PIERRE LOTI. 

He who has not beheld Nikko, has no right to make use of the 
word splendour. Japanese Proverb. 

IN the heart of the large island of Niphon and in a 
mountainous and wooded region, fifty leagues from 
Yokohama, is hidden that marvel of marvels — the necrop- 
olis of the Japanese Emperors. 

There, on the declivity of the Holy Mountain of Nikko, 
under cover of a dense forest and in the midst of cascades 
whose roar among the shadows of the cedars never ceases, 
is a series of enchanting temples, made of bronze and lacquer 
with roofs of gold, which look as if a magic ring must have 
called them into existence among the ferns and mosses and 
the green dampness, over-arched by dark branches and 
surrounded by the wildness and grandeur of Nature. 

Within these temples there is an inconceivable magnifi- 
cence, a fairy-like splendour. Nobody is about, except a 
ie.v7 guardian bonzes who chant hymns, and several white- 
robed priestesses who perform the sacred dances whilst 
waving their fans. Every now and then the slow vibra- 
tions of an enormous bronze gong, or the dull, heavy blows 
on a monstrous prayer-drum are heard in the deep and 



1/8 THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

echoing forest. At other times there are certain sounds 
which really seem to be a part of the silence and solitude, 
the chirp of the grasshoppers, the cry of the falcons in the 
air, the chatter of the monkeys in the branches, and the 
monotonous fall of the cascades. 

All this dazzling gold in the mystery of the forest makes 
these sepulchres unique. This is the Mecca of Japan ; 
this is the heart, as yet inviolate, of this country which is 
now gradually sinking in the great Occidental current, but 
which has had a magnificent Past. Those were strange 
mystics and very rare artists who, three or four hundred 
years ago, realized all this magnificence in the depths of 
the woods and for their dead. . . . 

We stop before the first temple. It stands a little off to 
itself in a kind of glade. You approach it by a garden 
with raised terraces ; a garden with grottos, fountains, 
and dwarf-trees with violet, yellow, or reddish foliage. 

The vast temple is entirely red, and blood-red ; an 
enormous black and gold roof, turned up at the corners, 
seems to crush it with its weight. From it comes a kind 
of religious music, soft and slow, interrupted from time to 
time by a heavy and horrible blow. 

It is wide open, open so that its entire facade with columns 
is visible ; but the interior is hidden by an immense white 
velum. The velum is of silk, only ornamented in its entire 
white length by three or four large, black, heraldic roses, 
which are very simple, but I cannot describe their exquisite 
distinction, and behind this first and half-lifted hanging, the 
light bamboo blinds are let down to the ground. 

We walk up several granite steps, and, to permit my 



THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 179 

entrance, my guide pushes aside a corner of the Veil : the 
sanctuary appears. 

Within everything is in black lacquer and gold lacquer, 
with the gold predominating. Above the complicated cor- 
nice and golden frieze there springs a ceiling in compart- 
ments, in worked lacquer of black and gold. Behind the 
colonnade at the back, the remote part, where, doubtless, the 
gods are kept, is hidden by long curtains of black and gold 
brocade, hanging in stiff folds from the ceiling to the floor. 
Upon white mats on the floor large golden vases are 
standing, filled with great bunches of golden lotuses as tall 
as trees. And finally from the ceiling, like the bodies of 
large dead serpents or monstrous boas, hang a quantity of 
astonishing caterpillars of silk, as large as a human arm, 
blue, yellow, orange, brownish-red, and black, or strangely 
variegated like the throats of certain birds of those islands. 

Some bonzes are singing in one corner, seated in a circle 
around a prayer-drum, large enough to hold them all. . . . 

We go out by the back door, which leads into the 
most curious garden in the world: it is a square filled with 
shadows shut in by the forest cedars and high walls, which 
are red like the sanctuary ; in the centre rises a very large 
bronze obelisk flanked with four little ones, and crowned 
with a pyramid of golden leaves and golden bells ; — you 
would say that in this country bronze and gold cost nothing ; 
they are used in such profusion, everywhere, just as we use 
the mean materials of stone and plaster. — All along this 
blood-red wall which forms the back of the temple, in order 
to animate this melancholy garden, at about the height of a 
man there is a level row of little wooden gods, of all forms 



l8o THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

and colours, which are gazing at the obelisic ; some blue, 
others yellow, others green ; some have the shape of a man, 
others of an elephant : a company of dv/arfs, extraordinarily 
comical, but which express no merriment. 

In order to reach the other temples, we again walk 
through the damp and shadowy woods along the avenues 
of cedars, which ascend and descend and intersect in various 
ways, and really constitute the streets of this city of the 
dead. 

We walk on pathways of fine sand, strewn with these 
little brown needles which drop from the cedars. Always 
in terraces, they are bordered with balustrades and pillars of 
granite covered with the most delicious moss ; you would 
say all the hand-rails have been garnished with a beautiful 
green velvet, and at each side of the sanded pathway invari- 
ably flow little fresh and limpid brooks, which join their 
crystal notes to those of the distant torrents and cascades. 

At a height of one hundred, or two hundred metres, we 
arrive at the entrance of something which seems to indicate 
magnificence : above us on the mountain in the medley of 
branches, walls taper upward, while roofs of lacquer and 
bronze, with their population of monsters, are perched 
everywhere, shining with gold. 

Before this entrance there is a kind of open square, a 
narrow glade, where a little sunlight falls. And here in its 
luminous rays two bonzes in ceremonial costume pass 
across the dark background : one, in a long robe of violet 
silk with a surplice of orange silk ; the other, in a robe of 
pearl-grey with a sky-blue surplice; each wears a high and 
rigid head-dress of black lacquer, which is seldom worn now. 



THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. l8l 

(These v/ere the only human beings whom we met on the 
way, during our pilgrimage.) They are probably going to 
perform some religious office, and, passing before the sump- 
tuous entrance, they make profound bows. 

This temple before which we are now standing is that 
of the deified soul of the Emperor Yeyaz (Sixteenth Cen- 
tury), and, perhaps, the most marvellous of all the buildings 
of Nikko. 

You ascend by a series of doors and enclosures, which 
become more and more beautiful as you get higher and 
nearer the sanctuary, where the soul of this dead Emperor 
dwells. . . . 

At the door of the Palace of the Splendour of the Orient 
we stop to take off our shoes according to custom. Gold 
is everywhere, resplendent gold. 

An indescribable ornamentation has been chosen for this 
threshold ; on the enormous posts are a kind of wavy 
clouds, or ocean-billows, in the centre of which here and 
there appear the tentacles of medusas, the ends of paws, the 
claws of crabs, the ends of long caterpillars, flat and scaly, 
— all kinds of horrible fragments, imitated in colossal size 
with a striking fidelity, and making you think that the beasts 
to which they belong must be hidden there within the walls 
ready to enfold you and tear your flesh. This splendour 
has mysteriously hostile undercurrents ; we feel that it has 
many a surprise and menace. Above our heads the lintels 
are, however, ornamented with large, exquisite flowers in 
bronze, or gold : roses, peonies, wistaria, and spring branches 
of full-blown cherry-blossoms ; but, still higher, horrible 
faces with fixed death's-head grimaces lean toward us ; 



l82 THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

terrible things of all shapes hang by their golden wings from 
the golden beams of the roof; we perceive in the air rows 
of mouths split open with atrocious laughter, and rows of 
eyes half-closed in an unquiet sleep. 

An old priest, aroused by the noise of our footsteps on 
the gravel in the silence of the court, appears before us on 
the bronze threshold. In order to examine the permit 
which I present to him, he puts a pair of round spectacles 
on his nose, which make him look like an owl. 

My papers are in order. A bow, and he steps aside to 
let me enter. 

It is gloomy inside this palace, with that mysterious 
semi-twilight which the Spirits delight in. The impressions 
felt on entering are grandeur and repose. 

The walls are of gold and the ceiling is of gold, supported 
on columns of gold. A vague, trembling light, illuminating 
as if from beneath, enters through the very much grated and 
very low windows ; the dark, undetermined depths are full 
of the gleamings of precious things. 

Yellow gold, red gold, green gold ; gold that is vital, or 
tarnished; gold that is brilliant, or lustreless; here and there 
on the friezes and on the exquisite capitals of the columns, 
a little vermilion, and a little emerald green ; very little, 
nothing but a thin thread of colour, just enough to relieve 
the wing of a bird and the petal of a lotus, a peony, or a 
rose. Despite so much richness nothing is overcharged ; 
such taste has been displayed in the arrangement of the 
thousands of diverse forms and such harmony in the ex- 
tremely complicated designs, that the effect of the whole is 
simple and reposeful. 



THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 183 

Neither human figures nor idols have a part in this sanc- 
tuary of Shintoism. Nothing stands upon the altars but 
large vases of gold filled with natural flowers in sheaves, or 
gigantic flowers of gold. 

No idols, but a multitude of beasts, flying or crawling, 
familiar or chimerical, pursue each other upon the walls, 
and fly away from the friezes and ceiling in all attitudes 
of fury and struggle, of terror and flight. Here, a flock 
of swans hurry away in swift flight the whole length of 
the golden cornice ; in other places are butterflies with 
tortoises ; large and hideous insects among the flowers, or 
many death-combats between fantastic beasts of the sea, 
medusae with big eyes, and imaginary fishes. On the ceil- 
ing innumerable dragons bristle and coil. The windows, 
cut out in multiple trefoils, in a form never before seen and 
which give little light, seem only a pretext for displaying all 
kinds of marvellous piercings : trellises of gold entwined 
with golden leaves, among which golden birds are sporting ; 
all of this seems accumulated at pleasure and permits the 
least possible light to enter into the deep golden shadows 
of the temple. The only really simple objects are the 
columns of a fine golden lacquer ending with capitals of a 
very sober design, forming a slight calix of the lotus, like 
those of certain ancient Egyptian palaces. 

We could spend days in admiring separately each panel, 
each pillar, each minute detail ; the least little piece of the 
ceiling, or the walls would be a treasure for a museum. And 
so many rare and extravagant objects have succeeded in 
making the whole a composition of large quiet lines ; many 
living forms, many distorted bodies, many ruffled wings, 



l84 THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

Stiff claws, open mouths, and squinting eyes have succeeded 
in producing a calm, an absolute calm, by force of an inex- 
plicable harmony, twilight, and silence. 

I believe, moreover, that here is the quintessence of 
Japanese Art, of which the specimens brought to our col- 
lections of Europe cannot give the true impression. And 
we are struck by feeling that this Art, so foreign to us, pro- 
ceeds from an origin so different ; nothing here is derived, 
ever so remotely, from what we call antiquities — Greek, 
Latin, or Arabian — which always influence, even if we 
are not aware of it, our native ideas regarding ornamental 
form. Here the least design, the smallest line, — every- 
thing — is as profoundly strange as if it had come from a 
neighbouring planet which had never held communication 
with our side of the world. 

The entire back of the temple, where it is almost night, 
is occupied by great doors of black lacquer and gold lacquer, 
with bolts of carved gold, shutting in a very sacred place 
which they refuse to show me. They tell me, moreover, 
that there is nothing in these closets ; but that they are the 
places where the deified souls of the heroes love to dwell; 
the priests only open them on certain occasions to place in 
them poems in their honour, or prayers wisely written on 
rice-paper. 

The two lateral wings on each side of the large golden 
sanctuary are entirely of marqueterie^ in prodigious mosaics 
composed of the most precious woods left in their natural 
colour. The representations are animals and plants : on the 
walls are light leaves in relief, bamboo, grasses of extreme 
delicacy, gold convolvulus falling in clusters of flowers, birds 



THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 185 

of resplendent plumage, peacocks and pheasants with spread 
tails. There is no painting here, no gold-work ; the whole 
effect is sombre, the general tone that of dead wood ; but 
each leaf of each branch is composed of a different piece ; 
and also each feather of each bird is shaded in such a way 
as to almost produce the effect of changing colours on the 
throats and wings. 

And at last, at last, behind all this magnificence, the 
most sacred place which they show me last, the most 
strange of all strange places, is the little mortuary court 
which surrounds the tomb. It is hollowed out of a moun- 
tain between whose rocky walls water is dripping : the 
lichens and moss have made a damp carpet here and the 
tall, surrounding cedars throw their dark shadows over it. 
There is an enclosure of bronze, shut by a bronze door 
which is inscribed across its centre with an inscription in 
gold, — not in the Japanese language, but in Sanscrit to 
give more mystery; a massive, lugubrious, inexorable door, 
extraordinary beyond all expression, and which is the ideal 
door for a sepulchre. In the centre of this enclosure is a 
kind of round turret also in bronze having the form of a 
pagoda-bell, of a kneeling beast, of I don't know what 
unknown and disturbing thing, and surmounted by a great 
astonishing heraldic flower : here, under this singular 
object, rests the body of the little yellow bonhomme^ once 
the Emperor Yeyaz, for whom all this pomp has been 
displayed. . . . 

A little breeze agitates the branches of the cedars this 
morning and there falls a shower of these little dry, brown 
needles, a little brown rain on the greyish lichens, on the 



l86 THE TEMPLES OF NIKKO. 

green velvet moss, and upon the sinister bronze objects. 
The voice of the cascades is heard in the distance like per- 
petual sacred music. An impression of nothingness and 
supreme peace reigns in this final court, to which so much 
splendour leads, 

In another quarter of the forest the temple of the deified 
soul of Yemidzou is of an almost equal magnificence. It 
is approached by a similar series of steps, little carved 
and gilded light-towers, doors of bronze and enclosures of 
lacquer; but the plan of the whole is a little less regular, 
because the mountain is more broken. . . . 

A solemn hour on the Holy Mountain is at night-fall, 
when they close the temples. It is even more lugubrious 
at this autumnal season, when the twilight brings sad 

J CD O 

thoughts. With heavy, rumbling sounds which linger long 
in the sonorous forest, the great panels of lacquer and 
bronze are rolled on their grooves to shut in the mag- 
nificent buildings which have been open all day, although 
visited by nobody. A cold and damp shiver passes through 
the black forest. For fear of fire, which might consume 
these marvels, not a single light is allowed in this village 
of Spirits, where certainly darkness falls sooner and remains 
longer than anywhere else ; no lamp has ever shone upon 
these treasures, which have thus slept in darkness in the 
very heart of Japan for many centuries ; and the cascades 
increase their music while the silence of night enshrouds 
the forest so rich in enchantment. 

Japoiieries d'' autotrine (15th ed., Paris, 1889). 



THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 
DAVID MASSON. 

JUST after the middle of August, 156 1, as we learn from 
contemporary records, there was a haar of unusual 
intensity and continuance over Edinburgh and all the 
vicinity. It began on Sunday the 17th, and it lasted with 
slight intermissions, till Thursday the 21st. " Besides the 
surfett weat and corruptioun of the air," writes Knox, then 
living in Edinburgh, " the myst was so thick and dark that 
skairse mycht any man espy ane other the length of two 
pair of butts." It was the more unfortunate because it was 
precisely in those days of miserable fog and drizzle that 
Mary, Queen of Scots, on her return to Scotland after her 
thirteen years of residence and education in France, had to 
form her first real acquaintance with her native shores and 
the capital of her realm. 

She had left Calais for the homeward voyage on Thurs- 
day the 14th of August, with a retinue of about one hun- 
dred and twenty persons, French and Scottish, embarked 
in two French state galleys, attended by several transports. 
They were a goodly company, with rich and splendid bag- 
gage. The Queen's two most important uncles, indeed, 
— the great Francis de Lorraine, Duke of Guise, and his 
brother, Charles de Lorraine, the Cardinal, — were not on 
board. They, with the Duchess of Guise and other senior 



l88 THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 

lords and ladies of the French Court, had bidden Mary fare- 
well at Calais, after having accompanied her thither from 
Paris, and after the Cardinal had in vain tried to persuade 
her not to take her costly collection of pearls and other 
jewels with her, but to leave them in his keeping till it 
should be seen how she might fare among her Scottish sub- 
jects. But on board the Queen's own galley were three 
others of her Guise or Lorraine uncles, — the Due d'Au- 
male, the Grand Prior, and the Marquis d'Elbeuf, — with 
M. Damville, son of the Constable of France, and a num- 
ber of French gentlemen of lower rank, among whom one 
notes especially young Pierre de Bourdeilles, better known 
afterwards in literary history as Sieur de Brantome, and a 
sprightly and poetic youth from Dauphine, named Chaste- 
lard, one of the attendants of M. Damville. With these 
were mixed the Scottish contingent of the Queen's train, her 
four famous " Marys " included, — Mary Fleming, Mary Liv- 
ingstone, Mary Seton,and Mary Beaton. They had been her 
playfellows and little maids of honour long ago in her Scottish 
childhood; they had accompanied her when she went abroad, 
and had lived with her ever since in France ; and they were 
now returning with her, Scoto-Frenchwomen like herself, 
and all of about her own age, to share her new fortunes. 

It is to Brantome that we owe what account we have of 
the voyage from Calais. He tells us how the Queen could 
hardly tear herself away from her beloved France, but kept 
gazing at the French coast hour after hour so long as it 
was in sight, shedding tears with every look, and exclaiming 
again and again, " Adieu, ma chere France ! Je ne vous 
verray jamais plus ! " . . . 



THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 189 

It was in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 20th of 
August, that there was a procession on horseback of the 
Queen, her French retinue, and the gathered Scottish lords 
and councillors, through the two miles of road which . led 
from Leith to Holyrood. On the way the Queen was 
met by a deputation of the Edinburgh craftsmen and their 
apprentices, craving her royal pardon for the ringleaders in 
a recent riot, in which the Tolbooth had been broken open 
and the Magistrates insulted and defied. This act of grace 
accorded as a matter of course, the Queen was that evening 
in her hall of Holyrood, the most popular of sovereigns for 
the moment, her uncles and other chiefs of her escort with 
her, and the rest dispersed throughout the apartments, while 
outside, in spite of the fog, there were bonfires of joy in the 
streets and up the slopes of Arthur's Seat, and a crowd of 
cheering loiterers moved about in the space between the 
palace-gate and the foot of the Canongate. Imparting 
some regulation to the proceedings of this crowd, for a 
while at least, was a special company of the most " honest " 
of the townsmen, " with instruments of musick and with 
musicians," admitted within the gate, and tendering the 
Queen their salutations, instrumental and vocal, under her 
chamber window. " The melody, as she alledged, lyked 
her Weill, and she willed the same to be continewed some 
nightis after." This is Knox's account ; but Brantome 
tells a different story. After noting the wretchedness of 
the hackneys provided for the procession from Leith to 
Holyrood, and the poorness of their harnessings and trap- 
pings, the sight of which, he says, made the Queen weep, 
he goes on to mention the evening serenade under the 



IQO THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 

windows of Holyrood, as the very completion of the day's 
disagreeables. The Abbey itself, he admits, was a fine 
enough building ; but, just as the Queen had supped and 
wanted to go to sleep, " there came under her window five 
or six hundred rascals of the town to serenade her with vile 
fiddles and rebecks, such as they do not lack in that country, 
setting themselves to sing psalms, and singing so ill and in 
such bad accord that there could be nothing worse. Ah ! 
what music, and what a lullaby for the night ! " Whether 
Knox's account of the Queen's impressions of the serenade 
or Brantome's is to be accepted, there can be no doubt that 
the matter and intention of the performance were religious. 
Our authentic picture, therefore, of Queen Mary's first 
night in Holyrood after her return from France is that of 
the Palace lit up from within, the dreary fog still persistent 
outside, the bonfires on Arthur's Seat and other vantage- 
grounds flickering through the fog, and the portion of the 
wet crowd nearest the Palace singing Protestant psalms for 
the Oueen's delectation to an accompaniment of violins. 

Next day, Thursday the 2 1st, this memorable Edinburgh 
haar of August 1 56 1 came to an end. Arthur's Seat and the 
other heights and ranges of the park round Holyrood wore, 
we may suppose, their freshest verdure ; and Edinburgh, 
dripping no longer, shone forth, we may hope, in her sun- 
niest beauty. The Queen could then become more par- 
ticularly acquainted with the Palace in which she had come 
to reside, and with the nearer aspects of the town to which 
the Palace was attached, and into which she had yet to 
make her formal entry. 

Then, as now, the buildings that went by the general 



THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 191 

name of Holyrood were distinguishable into two portions. 
There was the Abbey, now represented only by the beauti- 
ful and spacious fragment of ruin, called the Royal Chapel, 
but then, despite the spoliations to which it had been sub- 
jected by recent English invasions, still tolerably preserved 
in its integrity as the famous edifice, in Early Norman style, 
which had been founded in the Twelfth Century by David I., 
and had been enlarged in the Fifteenth by additions in the 
later and more florid Gothic, Close by this was Holyrood 
House, or the Palace proper, built in the earlier part of the 
Sixteenth Century, and chiefly by James IV., to form a 
distinct royal dwelling, and so supersede that occasional 
accommodation in the Abbey itself which had sufficed for 
Scottish sovereigns before Edinburgh was their habitual or 
capital residence. One block of this original Holyrood 
House still remains in the two-turreted projection of the 
present Holyrood which adjoins the ruined relic of the 
Abbey, and which contains the rooms now specially shown 
as " Queen Mary's Apartments." But the present Holy- 
rood, as a whole, is a construction of the reign of Charles H., 
and gives little idea of the Palace in which Mary took up 
her abode in 1561. The two-turreted projection on the 
left was not balanced then, as now, by a similar two-tur- 
reted projection on the right, with a facade of less height 
between, but was flanked on the right by a continued 
chateau-like frontage, of about the same height as the 
turreted projection, and at a uniform depth of recess from 
it, but independently garnished with towers and pinnacles. 
The main entrance into the Palace from the great outer 
courtyard was through this chateau-like flank, just about the 



192 THE PALACE OF HOLYROOD. 

spot where there is the entrance through the present middle 
facade ; and this entrance led, like the present, into an 
inner court or quadrangle, built round on all the four sides. 
That quadrangle of chateau, touching the Abbey to the 
back from its north-eastern corner, and with the two-tur- 
reted projection to its front from its north-western corner, 
constituted, indeed, the main bulk of the Palace. There 
were, however, extensive appurtenances of other buildings 
at the back or at the side farthest from the Abbey, forming 
minor inner courts, while part of that side of the great 
outer courtyard which faced the entrance was occupied by 
offices belonging to the Palace, and separating the court- 
yard from the adjacent purlieus of the town. For the 
grounds of both Palace and Abbey were encompassed by a 
wall, having gates at various points of its circuit, the prin- 
cipal and most strongly guarded of which was the Gothic 
porch admitting from the foot of the Canongate into the 
front courtyard. The grounds so enclosed were ample 
enough to contain gardens and spaces of plantation, besides 
the buildings and their courts. Altogether, what with the 
buildings themselves, what with the courts and gardens, 
and what with the natural grandeur of the site, — a level 
of deep and wooded park, between the Calton heights and 
crags on the one hand and the towering shoulders of Arthur 
Seat and precipitous escarpment of Salisbury Crags on the 
other, — Holyrood in 1561 must have seemed, even to an 
eye the most satiated with palatial splendours abroad, a 
sufficiently impressive dwelling-place to be the metropolitan 
home of Scottish royalty. 

Edinburgh Sketches and Memories (London and Edinburgh, 1892). 




SAINT-GUDULE. 



SAINT-GUDULE. 
VICTOR HUGO. 

THE windows of Saint-Gudule are of a kind almost 
unknown in France, real paintings, real pictures 
on glass of a marvellous style, with figures like Titian and 
architecture like Paul Veronese. 

The pulpit of this church is carved in wood by Henry 
Verbruggen and bears the date of 1699. The whole of 
creation, the whole of philosophy, the whole of poetry 
are expressed here by an enormous tree which supports 
the pulpit in its boughs and shelters a world of birds and 
animals among its leaves, while at its base Adam and Eve 
are pursued by a sorrowful angel, followed by Death who 
seems triumphant, and separated by the tail of the serpent. 
At its summit, the cross — Truth — and the infant Jesus, 
whose foot rests upon the head of the bruised serpent. 
This poem is sculptured and carved out of oak alone, in 
the strongest, the most tender, and the most spiritiielle 
manner. The effect is prodigiously rococo and prodigiously 
beautiful.- No matter v/hat the fanatics of the severe 
school would say, it is true. This pulpit is one of those 
rare instances in art where the beautiful and the rococo 
meet. Watteau and Coypel have also occasionally dis- 
covered such points of intersection. . . . 

It was three o'clock when I entered Saint-Gudule. 
They were celebrating the Office of the Virgin. A 

13 



194 SAINT-GUDULE. 

Madonna, covered with jewels and clothed in a robe of 
English lace, glittered on a dais of gold in the centre of 
the nave through a luminous cloud of incense which was 
dispersed around her. Many people were praying in the 
shadow motionless, and a strong ray of sunlight from above 
dispelled the gloom and shone full upon the large statues 
of proud mien arranged against the columns. The wor- 
shippers seemed of stone, the statues seemed alive. 

And then a beautiful chant of mingled deep and ringing 
voices fell mysteriously with the tones of the organ from the 
highest rails hidden by the mists of incense. I, during this 
time, had my eye fixed dreamily upon Verbruggen's pulpit, 
teeming with life, — that magic pulpit which is always sug- 
gestive. — Frame this with windows, ogives, and Renaissance 
tombs of white marble and black, and you will understand 
why a sublime sensation was produced by this scene, . . . 

I climbed the towers of Saint-Gudule. It was beautiful. 
The entire city lay beneath me, the toothed and voluted 
roofs of Brussels half-hidden by the smoke, the sky (a 
stormy sky), full of clouds, golden and curled above, solid 
as marble below ; in the distance a large cloud from which 
rain was falling like fine sand from a bag which has burst ; 
the sun shone above everything ; the magnificent open- 
work, lantern-like belfry stood out sombre against the 
white mists ; then the confused noise of the town reached 
me, then the verdure of the lovely hills on the horizon : 
it was truly beautiful. I admired everything like a provin- 
cial from Paris, which I am, — everything, even the mason 
who was hammering on a stone and whistling near me. 

En Voyage: France et Belgique (Paris, 1892). 



THE ESCURIAL. 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS. 

BEFORE my departure for Andalusia, I went to see 
the famous Convent of the Escurial, the leviathan 
of architecture, the eighth wonder of the world, the largest 
mass of granite upon the earth, and, if you desire other 
imposing epithets, then you must imagine them, for you 
will not find one that has not been used to describe it. I 
left Madrid in the early morning. The village of the 
Escurial, from which the Convent received its name, is 
eight leagues from the city, not far from the Guadarrama -, 
you pass through an arid and uninhabited country whose 
horizon is bounded by snow-covered mountains. A light, 
fine, and cold rain was falling when I reached the station 
of the Escurial. From it to the village there is a rise of 
half a mile. I clambered into an omnibus, and at the end 
of a few minutes, I was deposited in a solitary street 
bordered on the left by the Convent and on the right by 
the houses of the village, and shut in by the mountains. 
At the first glance you understand nothing ; you expect 
to see a building and you find a city ; you do not know 
if you are already in the Convent, or if you are outside ; 
you are hemmed in by walls. You advance, and find 
yourself in a square ; you look about you and see streets -, 



196 THE ESCURIAL. 

you have not yet entered, and already the Convent sur- 
rounds you : you are at your wit's end, and no longer 
know which way to turn. The first feeling is one of 
depression : the entire edifice is of mud-coloured stone, 
and all the layers are marked by a white stripe ; the roofs 
are covered with lead. You might call it a building made 
of earth. The very high walls are naked and pierced by 
a great number of windows which resemble barbicans. 
You might call it a prison rather than a convent. You 
find this gloomy colour everywhere : there is not a living 
soul here, and the silence is that of a deserted fortress ; and 
beyond the black roofs, the black mountain, which seems 
to be suspended over the building, gives it mysterious 
solitude. It seems as if the founder must have chosen the 
spot, the plan, and the colours, everything, in fact, with 
the intention of producing a sad and solemn spectacle. 
You lose your gaiety before entering ; you can smile no 
longer, you are thinking. You pause at the door of the 
Escurial with a kind of quaking, as if at the entrance of a 
dead city ; it seems to you that if the terrible Inquisition 
is reigning in any corner of the world, it must be between 
these walls ; for it is here that you can see its last traces 
and hear its last echo. 

Everybody knows that the Basilica and the Convent of 
the Escurial were founded by Philip II. after the battle of 
San Ouintino to fulfil his vow made durins; the war to Saint 
Laurence when he was forced to cannonade a church con- 
secrated to this saint. Don Juan Batista of Toledo com- 
menced the building and Herrera finished it, and the work 
upon it lasted for twenty-one years. Philip II. wished the 



THE ESCURIAL. I97 

building to have the form of a gridiron in memory of Saint 
Laurence's martyrdom ; and, in reality, this is its form. 
The plan is a rectangular parallelogram. Four large square 
towers with pointed roofs rise at the four corners, and 
represent the four feet of a gridiron ; the church and the 
royal palace, which extend on one side, represent the handle ; 
and the interior buildings, which are placed across the two 
long sides, represent the parallel bars. Other smaller 
buildings rise outside of the parallelogram, not far from the 
Convent, along one of the long sides and one of the courts, 
forming two large squares ; the other two sides are occupied 
by gardens. Facades, doors, and entrance-halls, are all in 
harmony with the grandeur and character of the edifice : it 
is useless to multiply descriptions. The royal Palace is 
magnificent, and in order to keep a clear impression of each 
individual building, it is better to see it before you enter the 
Convent and Church. This palace is in the north-east corner 
of the building. Several halls are filled with pictures, others 
are hung from the ceiling to the floor with tapestries, 
representing bull-fights, dances, games, fetes.^ and Spanish 
costumes, after Goya ; others are decorated and furnished in 
princely style; the floor, the doors, and the windows are 
covered with marvellous mosaics and dazzling gold-work. 
But among all the rooms, that of Philip II. is especially 
remarkable. It is a dark and bare cell, whose alcove com- 
municates with the royal oratory of the church in such a 
way that, when the doors were open, from his bed he could 
see the priest celebrating Mass. Philip II. slept in this room, 
had his last illness there, and died there. You can still see 
some of the chairs he used, two little benches on which 



198 THE ESCURIAL. 

he rested his gouty leg, and a writing-desk. The walls are 
white, the ceiling is unornamented, and the floor is of 
stone. 

When you have seen the royal Palace, you go out of the 
building, cross the square, and re-enter the great door. A 
guide joins you and you pass through the large entrance to 
find yourself in the Kings' court-yard. Here you gain an 
idea of the enormous structure of the building. This court 
is entirely shut in by walls ; opposite the door is the facade 
of the Church. Above a wide stairway stand six enormous 
Doric columns ; each of these supports a large pedestal, and 
each pedestal upholds a statue. These six colossal statues 
are by Batista Monegro, representing Jehoshaphat, Ezekiel, 
David, Solomon, Joshua, and Manasseh. The court-yard 
is paved and bunches of damp grass grow here and there ; 
the walls look Uke rocks cut in points; everything is rigid, 
massive, and heavy, and presents the indescribable aspect 
of a fantastic edifice hewn by Titans from a mountain and 
capable of defying earthquakes and lightnings. At this 
point you really begin to understand the Escurial. . . . 

After seeing the Church and the Sacristy, you visit the 
Picture-Gallery, which contains a large number of paintings 
by artists of all countries, not the best examples, however, 
for these have been taken to the Madrid gallery, but of 
sufficient value to merit a thoughtful visit of half a day. 
From the Picture-Gallery you go to the Library by means 
of the large stairway, over which is rounded an enormous 
vaulted ceiling, painted all over with frescoes by Luca 
Giordano. The Library is an immense hall adorned with 
large allegorical paintings, and contains more than fifty 



THE ESCURIAL, 199 

thousand rare volumes, four thousand of which were given 
by Philip II., and beyond this is another hall, which con- 
tains a very valuable collection of manuscripts. From the 
Library you go to the Convent. Here human imagina- 
tion is completely lost. If my reader knows Espronceda's 
Estudiante de Salamanca^ he will remember that the persistent 
young man, when following the mysterious lady whom he 
met at night at the foot of a tabernacle, runs from street to 
street, from square to square, and from alley to alley, turning 
and returning, until he arrives at a spot where he can no 
longer see the houses of Salamanca and where he discovers 
that he is in an unknown city ; and in proportion as he 
advances the town seems to grow larger, the streets longer 
and the intertwining alleys more tortuous ; but he goes on 
and on without stopping, not knowing if he is awake or 
dreaming, if he is intoxicated or mad ; terror begins to enter 
his brave heart and the most peculiar phantoms crowd into 
his distracted mind : this is what happens to the stranger 
in the Convent of the Escurial. You pass through a long 
subterranean corridor, so narrow that you can touch the 
wall with your elbows, so low that your head almost hits 
the ceiling, and as damp as a grotto under the sea; on 
reaching its end, you turn, and you are in another corridor. 
You go on, pass through doors, and look around : other 
corridors extend as far as your eye can see. At the end of 
some of them you notice a feeble light, at the end of others 
an open door which reveals a suite of rooms. Every now 
and then you hear a footstep : you stop ; all is silent ; then 
you hear it again ; you do not know if it is above your head, 
or to the right, or the left, or before you, or behind you. 



200 THE ESCURIAL, 

You are about to enter a door ; you recoil in terror : at 
the end of a long corridor you see a man, motionless as a 
spectre, who is staring at you. You continue your journey 
and arrive in a strange court, surrounded by high walls and 
overgrown with grass, full of echoes, and illuminated by a 
wan light which seems to come from some strange sun ; it 
reminds you of the haunts of witches described to you in 
your childhood. You go out of the court, walk up a stair- 
way, arrive in a gallery, and look down : there beneath you 
is another, and deserted, court. You walk down another 
corridor, you descend another stairway, and you find your- 
self in a third court ; then again more corridors, stairways, 
suites of empty rooms, and narrow courts, and everywhere 
granite, a wan light, and the stillness of death. For a short 
time you think you could retrace your steps ; then your 
memory forsakes you, and you recall nothing : it seems as 
if you had walked ten leagues, that you have been in this 
labyrinth for a month, and that you will never get out of 
it. You come to a court, and exclaim : " I have seen this 
before ! " No you are mistaken : it is another one. You 
think you are on one side of the building and you are on 
the opposite one. You ask your guide for the cloister, and 
he replies : " It is here," and you continue walking for half 
an hour. You fancy you are dreaming : you have glimpses 
of long walls, frescoed, and adorned with pictures, the 
crucifix, and with inscriptions ; you see and you forget ; 
you ask yourself " Where am I ? " You see a light as if 
from another world : you have never conceived of such a 
peculiar light. Is it the reflection of the granite ? Is it 
moonlight? No, it is daylight; but a daylight sadder than 



THE ESCURIAL. 20I 

darkness ; it is a false, sinister, fantastic daylight. Let us 
go on ! From corridor to corridor, from court to court, 
you look before you with mistrust ; you expect to see sud- 
denly at the turn of a corner a row of skeleton monks with 
hoods drawn over their eyes and their arms folded ; you 
think of Philip II.; you fancy you hear his step growing 
ever fainter down the distant passages ; you remember all 
you have read of him, of his terrors, of the Inquisition ; and 
evei-ything becomes suddenly plain ; you understand it all 
for the first time: the Escurial is Philip II., you see him 
at every step, and you hear him breathe ; for he is here, 
Hving and fearful, and the image of his terrible God is with 
him. Then you want to revolt, to raise your thought to 
the God of your heart and hope, and to conquer the mys- 
terious terror which this place inspires ; but you cannot ; 
the Escurial envelops you, possesses you, crushes you; the 
cold of its stones penetrates into your very bones, the 
sadness of its sepulchral labyrinths takes possession of your 
soul. If you were with a friend, you would say : " Let us 
go ! " ; if you were with your loved one, you would trem- 
blingly clasp her to your heart ; if you were alone, you 
would take flight. Finally you ascend the stairway, and, 
entering a room, go to the window to salute rapturously the 
mountains, the sunshine, liberty, and the great and generous 
God who loves and pardons. 

How one breathes again at this window ! 

From it you see the gardens, which occupy a restricted 
space and which are very simple, but elegant and beautiful, 
and in perfect harmony with the building. You see in 
them twelve charming fountains, each surrounded by four 



202 THE ESCURIAL. 

squares of box-wood, representing the royal escutcheons, 
designed with such skill and trimmed with such precision 
that in looking at them from the windows they seem to 
be made of plush and velvet, and they stand out from 
the white sand of the walks in a very striking manner. 
There are no trees, nor flowers, nor pavilions here ; in 
all the gardens nothing is to be seen but fountains and 
squares of box-wood and these two colours — white and 
green — and such is the beauty of this noble simplicity 
that the eye is enchanted with it, and when it has passed 
out of sight, the thought returns and rests there with 
pleasure m.ingled with a gentle melancholy. . . . 

An illustrious traveller has said that after having spent 
a day in the Convent of the Escurial, one should feel 
happy for the remainder of his life in thinking that he 
might be still between those walls, but that he has escaped. 
That is very nearly true. Even now, after so long a 
time, on rainy days when I am sad I think about the 
Escurial, then I look around the walls of my room and I 
become gay ; during nights of insomnia, I see the courts 
of the Escurial; when I am ill and drop into a feverish 
and heavy sleep, I dream that all night I am wandering in 
these corridors, alone and followed by the phantom of a 
monk, screaming and knocking at all the doors without 
finding a way out, until I decide to go to the Pantheon, 
where the door bangs behind me and shuts me in among 
the tombs. 

With what delight I saw the myriad lights of the 
Puerto del Sol^ the crowded cafes and the great and noisy 
street of the Alcala ! When I w^ent into the house I 



THE ESCURIAL. 203 

made such a noise, that the servant, who was a good and 
simple Gallician, ran excitedly to her mistress and said : 
'' Me parece el italiano se ha vuelto locoT (I think the 
Italian has lost his senses). 

La Spagna (Florence, 1873). 



THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 

JAMES FERGUSSON. 

THERE does not seem to be any essential difference 
either in plan or form between the Saiva and 
Vaishnava temples in the south of India. It is only by 
observing the images or emblems worshipped, or by reading 
the stories represented in the numerous sculptures with 
which a temple is adorned, that we find out the god to 
whom it is dedicated. Whoever he may be, the temples 
consist almost invariably of the four following parts, 
arranged in various manners, as afterwards to be explained, 
but differing in themselves only according to the age in 
which they were executed : — 

1. The principal part, the actual temple itself, is called 
the V'lmana. It is always square in plan, and surmounted 
by a pyramidal roof of one or more storeys ; it contains the 
cell in which the image of the god or his emblem is placed. 

2. The porches or Mantapas^ which always cover and 
precede the door leading to the cell. 

3. Gate pyramids, Gopuras^ which are the principal 
features in the quadrangular enclosures which always sur- 
round the Vmanas. 

4. Pillared halls or Choultries^ used for various purposes, 
and which are the invariable accompaniments of these 
temples. 



t£.\y .^. v^^„ 4-* 




THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 



THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 205 

Besides these, a temple always contains tanks or wells 
for water — to be used either for sacred purposes or the 
convenience of the priests, — dwellings for all the various 
grades of the priesthood attached to it, and numerous other 
buildings designed for state or convenience. . . . 

The population of southern India in the Seventeenth and 
Eighteenth Century was probably hardly less than it is now 
— some thirty millions — and if one-third or one-fourth 
of such a population v/ere to seek employment in building, 
the results, if persevered in through centuries, would be 
something astonishing. A similar state of affairs prevailed 
apparently in Egypt in the time of the Pharaohs, but with 
very different results. The Egyptians had great and lofty 
ideas, and a hankering after immortality, that impressed 
itself on all their works. The southern Indians had no 
such aspirations. Their intellectual status is, and always 
was, mediocre ; they had no literature of their own — no 
history to which they could look back with pride, and their 
religion was, and is, an impure and degrading fetishism. 
It is impossible that anything grand and imposing should 
come out of such a state of things. What they had to 
offer to their gods was a tribute of labour, and that was 
bestowed without stint. To cut a chain of fifty links 
out of a block of granite and suspend it between two 
pillars, was \yith them a triumph of art. To hollow deep 
cornices out of the hardest basalt, and to leave all the 
framings, as if of the most delicate woodwork, standing 
free, was with them a worthy object of ambition, and 
their sculptures are still inexplicable mysteries, from our 
ignoiance of how it was possible to execute them. All 



206 THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 

that millions of hands working through centuries could do, 
has been done, but with hardly any higher motive than to 
employ labour and to conquer difficulties, so as to astonish 
by the amount of the first and the cleverness with which 
the second was overcome — and astonished we are ; but 
without some higher motive true architecture cannot exist. 
The Dravidians had not even the constructive difficulties 
to overcome which enabled the Mediaeval architects to 
produce such noble fabrics as our cathedrals. The aim 
of architects in the Middle Ages was to design halls which 
should at the same time be vast, but stable, and suited for 
the accommodation of great multitudes to witness a lofty 
ritual. In their struggles to accomplish this they developed 
intellectual powers which impress us still through their 
works. No such lofty aims exercised the intellectual 
faculties of the Hindu. His altar and the statue of his 
god were placed in a dark cubical cell wholly without orna- 
ment, and the porch that preceded that was not neces- 
sarily either lofty or spacious. What the Hindu architect 
craved for, was a place to display his powers of ornamen- 
tation, and he thought he had accomplished all his art 
demanded when he covered every part of his building with 
the most elaborate and most difficult designs he could 
invent. Much of this ornamentation, it is true, is very 
elegant, and evidences of power and labour do impress 
the human imagination, often even in defiance of our 
better judgment, and nowhere is this more apparent than 
in these Dravidian temples. It is in vain, however, we 
look among them for any manifestation of those lofty aims 
and noble results which constitute the merit and the great- 



THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 20/ 

ness of true architectural art, and which generally charac- 
terise the best works in the true styles of the western 
world. . . . 

Immediately in front of his choultrie, Tirumulla Nayak 
commenced a gopura, which, had he lived to complete it, 
would probably have been the finest edifice of its class in 
southern India. It measures 174 ft. from north to south, 
and 107 ft. in depth. The entrance through it is 21 ft. 
9 in. wide ; and if it be true that its gateposts are 60 ft. 
(Tripe says 57 ft.) in height, that would have been the 
height of the opening. It will thus be seen that it was 
designed on even a larger scale than that at Seringham, 
and it certainly far surpasses that celebrated edifice in the 
beauty of its details. Its doorposts alone, whether 57 ft. 
or 60 ft. in height, are single blocks of granite, carved 
with the most exquisite scroll patterns of elaborate foliage, 
and all the other carvings are equally beautiful. Being un- 
finished, and consequently never consecrated, it has escaped 
whitewash, and alone, of all the buildings of Madura, its 
beauties can still be admired in their original perfection. 

The great temple at Madura is a larger and far more 
important building than the choultrie ; but, somehow or 
other, it has not attracted the attention of travellers to the 
same extent that the latter has. No one has ever attempted 
to make a plan of it, or to describe it in such detail as 
would enable others to understand its peculiarities. It 
possesses, however, all the characteristics of a first-class 
Dravidian temple, and, as its date is perfectly well known, 
it forms a landmark of the utmost value in enabling us to 
fix the relative date of other temples. 



208 THE TEMPLE OF MADURA. 

The sanctuary is said to have been built by Viswanath, 
the first king of the Nayak dynasty, a. d. 1520, which may 
possibly be the case ; but the temple itself certainly owes 
all its magnificence to Tirumulla Nayak, a. d. 1622— 1657, 
or to his elder brother, Muttu Virappa, Vi'ho preceded 
him, and who built a mantapa, said to be the oldest thing 
now existing here. The Kalyana mantapa is said to have 
been built a. d. 1707, and the Tatta Suddhi in 1770. 
These, however, are insignificant parts compared with those 
which certainly owe their origin to Tirumulla Nayak. 

The temple itself is a nearly regular rectangle, two of 
its sides measuring 720 ft. and 729 ft., the other two 
834 ft. and 852 ft. It possessed four gopuras of the first 
class, and five smaller ones ; a very beautiful tank, sur- 
rounded by arcades; and a hall of 1000 columns, whose 
sculptures surpass those of any other hall of its class I am 
acquainted with. There is a small shrine, dedicated to 
the goddess Minakshi, the tutelary deity of the place, 
which occupies the space of fifteen columns, so the real 
number is only 985 ; but it is not their number, but their 
marvellous elaboration that makes it the wonder of the 
place, and renders it, in some respects, more remarkable 
than the choultrie about which so much has been said and 
written. I do not feel sure that this hall alone is not a 
greater work than the choultrie; taken in conjunction with 
the other buildings of the temple, it certainly forms a far 
more imposing group. 

History of Indian and Eastern Architecture (New York, 1891). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 
THEOPHILE GAUTiER. 

THE Cathedral absorbs the attention of every traveller 
who visits Milan. It dominates the town, stand- 
ing in the centre as its chief attraction and marvel. To it 
one hastens immediately on arriving, even on a night when 
there is no moon, to grasp at least a few of its outlines. 

The piazza del Duomo^ irregular enough in its form, is 
bordered v/ith houses of v/hich it is customary to speak 
ill ; the guide never omits telling the traveller that these 
should be razed to make this a symmetrical square in the 
Rivoli taste. I am not of this opinion. These houses 
with their massive pillars and their saffron-coloured awnings 
standing opposite to some irregular buildings of unequal 
height, make a very good setting for the Cathedral. 
Edifices often lose more than they gain by not being 
obstructed : I have been convinced of this by several 
Gothic monuments, the effect of which was not spoiled by 
the stalls and the ruins which had gathered around them, 
as might have been believed ; this is not, however, the 
case with the Cathedral, which is perfectly isolated ; but I 
think that nothing is more favourable to a palace, a church, 
or any regularly constructed building than to be surrounded 
by heterogeneous buildings which bring out the proportions 
of the noble order. 



2IO THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 

When we look at the Cathedral from the square, the 
effect is ravishing : the whiteness of the marble, standing 
out from the blue of the sky, strikes you first ; one would 
say that an immense piece of silver lace had been placed 
against a background of lapis la-zuU. This is the first 
impression, and it will also be the last memory. When- 
ever I think of the Duomo of Milan, it always appears 
like this. The Cathedral is one of those rare Gothic 
churches of Italy, yet this Gothic resembles ours but 
little. We do not find here that sombre faith, that dis- 
quieting mystery, those dark depths, those severe forms, 
that darting up from earth towards the sky, that character 
of austerity which repudiates beauty as too sensual and 
only selects from a subject what is necessary to bring you 
a step nearer to God ; this is a Gothic full of elegance, 
grace, and brilliancy, which one dreams of for fairy palaces 
and with which one could build alcazars and mosques as 
well as a Catholic temple. The delicacy in its enormous 
proportions and its whiteness make it look like a glacier 
with its thousand needles, or a gigantic concretion of sta- 
lactites ; it is difficult to believe it the work of man. 

The design of the facade is of the simplest : it is an 
angle sharp as the gable-end of an ordinary house and 
bordered with marble lace, resting upon a wall without 
any fore-part, of no distinct order of architecture, pierced 
by five doors and eight windows and striped v/ith six 
groups of columns with fillets, or rather mouldings which 
end in hollowed out points surmounted by statues and filled 
in their interstices with brackets and niches supporting and 
sheltering figures of angels, saints, and patriarchs. Back 



THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 211 

of these spring out from innumerable fillets, like the pipes 
of a basaltic grotto, forests of little steeples, pinnacles, 
minarets, and needles of white marble, while the central 
spire which resembles frost-work, crystallized in the air, 
rises in the azure to a terrific height and places the Virgin, 
who is standing upon its tip with her foot on a crescent, 
within two steps of Heaven. In the middle of the facade 
these words are inscribed : Mariae nascentiy the dedication 
of the Cathedral. 

Begun by Jean Galeas Visconti, continued by Ludovico 
le More, the basilica of Milan was finished by Napoleon, 
It is the largest church known after Saint Peter's in Rome. 
The interior is of a majestic and noble simplicity: rows 
of columns in pairs form five naves. Notwithstanding 
their actual mass, these groups of columns have a lightness 
of effect on account of the grace of their shafts. Above 
the capitals of the pillars there is a kind of gallery, per- 
forated and carved, where statues of saints are placed ; then 
the mouldings continue until they unite at the summit of 
the vault, which is ornamented with trefoils and Gothic 
knots made with such perfection that they would deceive 
the eye, if the plaster, which has fallen in places, did not 
reveal the naked stone. 

In the centre of the cross an opening, surrounded by a 
balustrade, allows you to look down into the crypt, where 
the remains of Saint Charles Borromeo rest in a crystal 
coffin covered with plates of silver. Saint Charles Bor- 
romeo is the most revered saint of the district. His virtues 
and his conduct during the plague in Milan made him 
popular, and his memory is always kept alive. 



212 THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 

At the entrance of the choir upon a grille which supports 
a crucifix, surrounded by angels in adoration, we read the 
following inscription framed in wood : Attendite ad petram 
uiide excisi estis. On each side there are two magnificent 
pulpits of wood, supported by superb bronze figures and 
ornamented with silver bas-reliefs, the subjects of which 
are their least value. The organs, placed not far from the 
pulpits, have fine paintings by Procacini, if my memory 
docs not deceive me, for shutters ; above the choir there is 
a Road to the Cross, sculptured by Andrea Biffi. and several 
other A4ilanese sculptors. The weeping angels, which 
mark the stations, have a great variety of attitudes and 
are charming, although their grace is somewhat effeminate. 

The general impression is simple and religious ; a soft 
light invites you to reflection ; the large pillars spring to 
the vault with a movement full of vitality and faith ; not 
a single detail is here to destroy the majesty of the whole. 
There is no overcharging and no surfeit of luxury : the 
lines follow each other from one end to the other, and 
the design of the edifice is understood in a single glance. 
The superb elegance of the exterior seems but a veil for 
mystery and humility within ; the blatant hymn of marble 
makes you lower your voice and speak in a hushed tone : 
the exterior, by reason of its lightness and whiteness, is, 
perhaps, Pagan ; the interior is, most assuredly. Christian. 

In the corner of a nave, just before ascending the dome, 
we glance at a tomb filled with allegorical figures cast in 
bronze by the Cavalier Aretin after Michael Angelo in a 
bold and superb style. You arrive straightway on the roof 
of the church after climbing a stairway decorated at every 




THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 213 

angle with prohibitive, or threatening inscriptions, which 
do not speak well in favour of the Italians' piety or sense 
of propriety. 

This roof all bristling with steeples and ribbed with flying- 
buttresses at the sides, which form corridors in perspective, 
is made of great slabs of marble, like the rest of the edifice. 
Even at this point it is higher than the highest monuments 
of the city. A bas-relief of the finest execution is sunk in 
each buttress ; each steeple is peopled with twenty-five 
statues. I do not believe there is another place in the 
world that holds in the same amount of space so large a 
number of sculptured figures. One could make an important 
city with the marble population of the Cathedral statues. 
Six thousand, seven hundred and sixteen have been counted. 
I have heard of a church in the Morea painted in the Byzan- 
tine style by the monks of Mount Athos, which did not 
contain less than three thousand figures. This is as nothing 
in comparison to the Cathedral of Milan. With regard to 
persons painted and sculptured, I have often had this dream 
— that if ever I were invested with magical power I would 
animate all the figures created by art in granite, in stone, in 
wood, and on canvas and people with them a country which 
would be a realization of the landscapes in the pictures. 
The sculptured multitude of this Cathedral bring back this 
fantasy. Among these statues there is one by Canova, a 
Saint Sebastian, lodged in an aiguille^ and an Eve by Cristo- 
foro Gobi, of such a charming and sensual grace that it is 
a little astonishing to see her in such a place. However, 
she is very beautiful, and the birds of the sky do not appear 
to be scandalized by her Edenesque costume. 



214 THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. 

From this platform there unfolds an immense panorama : 
you see the Alps and the Apennines, the vast plains of 
Lombardy, and with a glass you can regulate your watch 
from the dial of the church of Monza, whose stripes of 
black and white stones may be distinguished. . . . 

The ascent of the spire, which is perforated and open to 
the light, is not at all dangerous, although it may affect 
people who are subject to vertigo. Frail stairways wind 
through the towers and lead you to a balcony, above which 
there is nothing but the cap of the spire and the statue 
which crowns the edifice. 

I will not try to describe this gigantic basilica in detail. 
A volume would be needed for its monograph. As a mere 
artist I must be content with a general view and a personal 
impression. After one has descended into the street and 
has made the tour of the church one finds on the lateral 
facades and apses the same crowd of statues, the same 
multitude of bas-reliefs : it is a terrifying debauch of sculp- 
ture, an incredible heap of wonders. 

Around the Cathedral all kinds of little industries prosper, 
stalls of second-hand booksellers, opticians selling their wares 
in the open air, and even a theatre of marionnettes^ whose 
performances I promise myself not to miss. Human life 
with its trivialities swarms and stirs at the foot of this 
majestic edifice, which, like petrified fireworks, is bursting 
its white rockets in the sky ; here, as everywhere, we find 
the same contrast of sublimity of idea and vulgarity of fact. 
The temple of the Saviour throws its shadow across the hut 
of Punchinello. 

Voyage en Italie (Parisj new ed., 1884). 



THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN, 
AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 

THE mosque of Sultan Hassan, confessedly the most 
beautiful in Cairo, is also perhaps the most beautiful 
in the Moslem world. It was built at just that happy- 
moment when Arabian art In Egypt, having ceased merely 
to appropriate or imitate, had at length evolved an original 
architectural style out of the heterogeneous elements of 
Roman and early Christian edifices. The mosques of a 
few centuries earlier (as, for instance, that of Tulun, which 
marks the first departure from the old Byzantine model) 
consisted of little more than a courtyard with colonnades 
leading to a hall supported on a forest of pillars. A little 
more than a century later, and the national style had already 
experienced the beginnings of that prolonged eclipse which 
finally resulted in the bastard Neo-Byzantine Renaissance 
represented by the mosque of Mehemet Ali. But the 
mosque of Sultan Hassan, built ninety-seven years before 
the taking of Constantinople, may justly be regarded as the 
highest point reached by Saracenic art in Egypt after it had 
used up the Greek and Roman material of Memphis, and 
before its new-born originality became modified by influence 
from beyond the Bosphorus. Its pre-eminence is due neither 
to the greatness of its dimensions, nor to the splendour of 



2l6 THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 

its materials. It is neither so large as the great mosque at 
Damascus, nor so rich in costly marbles as Saint Sophia in 
Constantinople; but in design, proportion, and a certain 
lofty grace impossible to describe, it surpasses these, and 
every other mosque, whether original or adapted, with which 
the writer is acquainted. 

The whole structure is purely national. Every line and 
curve in it, and every inch of detail, is in the best style of 
the best period of the Arabian school. And above all, it 
was designed expressly for its present purpose. The two 
famous mosques of Damascus and Constantinople having, 
on the contrary, been Christian churches, betray evidences 
of adaptation. In Saint Sophia, the space once occupied by 
the figure of the Redeemer may be distinctly traced in the 
mosaic-work of the apse, filled in with gold tesserae of later 
date; while the magnificent gates of the great m.osque at 
Damascus are decorated, among other Christian emblems, 
with the sacramental chalice. But the mosque of Sultan 
Hassan built by En Nasir Hassan in the high and palmy 
days of the Memlook rule, is marred by no discrepancies. 
For a mosque it was designed, and a mosque it remains. 
Too soon it v/ill be only a beautiful ruin. 

A number of small streets having lately been demolished 
in this quarter, the approach to the mosque lies across 
a desolate open space littered with debris, but destined to 
be laid out as a public square. With this desirable end in 
view, some half dozen workmen were lazily loading as 
many camels with rubble, which is the Arab way of carting 
rubbish. If they persevere, and the Minister of Public 
Works continues to pay their wages with due punctuality, 




THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 



THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 21/ 

the ground will perhaps get cleared in eight or ten years' 
time. 

Driving up with some difficulty to the foot of the great 
steps, which were crowded with idlers smoking and sleeping, 
we observed a long and apparently fast-widening fissure 
reaching nearly from top to bottom of the main wall of the 
building, close against the minaret. It looked like just 
such a rent as might be caused by a shock of earthquake, 
and, being still new to the East, we wondered the Govern- 
ment had not set to work to mend it. We had yet to learn 
that nothing is ever mended in Caii'o. Here, as in Con- 
stantinople, new buildings spring up apace, but the old, no 
matter how venerable, are allowed to moulder away, inch 
by inch, till nothing remains but a heap of ruins. 

Going up the steps and through a lofty hall, up some 
more steps and along a gloomy corridor, we came to the 
great court, before entering v/hich, however, we had to take 
off our boots and put on slippers brought for the purpose. 
The first sight of this court is an architectural surprise. It 
is like nothing that one has seen before, and its beauty equals 
its novelty. Imagine an immense marble quadrangle, open 
to the sky and enclosed within lofty walls, with, at each 
side, a vast recess framed in by a single arch. The quad- 
rangle is more than lOO feet square, and the walls are more 
than 100 feet high. Each recess forms a spacious hall for 
rest and prayer, and all are matted ; but that at the eastern 
end is wider and considerably deeper than the other three, 
and the noble arch that encloses it like the proscenium of a 
splendid stage, measures, according to Fergusson, 69 feet 5 
inches in the span. It looks much larger. This principal 



2l8 THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 

hall, the floor of which is raised one step at the upper end, 
measures 90 feet in depth and 90 in height. The dais is 
covered v/ith prayer-rugs, and contains the holy niche and 
the pulpit of the preacher. We observed that those vi^ho 
came up here came only to pray. Having prayed, they 
either went away or turned aside into one of the other 
recesses to rest. There was a charming fountain in the 
court, with a dome-roof as light and fragile-looking as a big 
bubble, at which each worshipper performed his ablutions 
on coming in. This done, he left his slippers on the 
matting and trod the carpeted dais barefoot. . . . 

While we were admiring the spring of the roof and the 
intricate Arabesque decorations of the pulpit, a custode 
came up with a big key and invited us to visit the tomb of 
the founder. So we followed him into an enormous vaulted 
hall a hundred feet square, in the centre of which stood a 
plain, railed-ofF tomb, with an empty iron-bound coffer at 
the foot. We afterwards learned that for five hundred 
years — that is to say, ever since the death and burial of 
Sultan Hassan — this coffer had contained a fine copy of 
the Koran, traditionally said to have been written by Sultan 
Hassan's own hand ; but that the Khedive, who is collecting 
choice and antique Arabic MSS., had only the other day 
sent an order for its removal. 

Nothing can be bolder or more elegant than the proportions 
of this noble sepulchral hall, the walls of which are covered 
with tracery in low relief incrusted with discs and tesserae 
of turquoise-coloured porcelain ; while high up, in order to 
lead off the vaulting of the roof, the corners are rounded by 
means of recessed clusters of exquisite Arabesque woodwork, 



THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 219 

like pendant stalactites. But the tesserse are fast falling 
out, and most of their places are vacant ; and the beautiful 
woodwork hangs in fragments, tattered and cobwebbed, like 
time-worn banners which the first touch of a brush would 
bring down. 

Going back again from the tomb to the courtyard, we 
everywhere observed traces of the same dilapidation. The 
fountain, once a miracle of Sarascenic ornament, was fast 
going to destruction. The rich marbles of its basement 
were cracked and discoloured, its stuccoed cupola was 
flaking off piecemeal, its enamels were dropping out, its 
lace-like wood tracery shredding away by inches. 

Presently a tiny brown and golden bird perched with 
pretty confidence on the brink of the basin, and having 
splashed, and drunk, and preened its feathers like a true 
believer at his ablutions, flew up to the top of the cupola 
and sang deliciously. All else was profoundly still. Large 
spaces of light and shadow divided the quadrangle. The 
sky showed overhead as a square opening of burning solid 
blue ; while here and there, reclining, praying, or quietly 
occupied, a number of turbaned figures were picturesquely 
scattered over the matted floors of the open halls around. 
Yonder sat a tailor cross-legged, making a waistcoat ; near 
him, sti^etched on his face at full length, sprawled a basket- 
maker with his half-woven basket and bundle of rushes 
beside him ; and here, close against the main entrance, lay 
a blind man and his dog ; the master asleep, the dog keeping 
watch. It was, as I have said, our first mosque, and I well 
remember the surprise with which we saw that tailor sewing 
on his buttons, and the sleepers lying about in the shade. 



220 THE MOSQUE OF HASSAN. 

We did not then know that a Mohammedan mosque is as 
much a place of rest and refuge as of prayer; or that the 
houseless Arab may take shelter there by night or day as 
freely as the birds may build their nests in the cornice, or as 
the blind man's dog may share the cool shade with the sleep- 
ing master. 

A Thousand Miles up the Nile (London, 2d ed., 1889). 




THE CATHEDRAL OF TREVES. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TREVES. 

EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN. 

THE ancient capital of the Treveri has the privilege 
of being knov/n by two modern names, native and 
foreign, each of which preserves a letter of the ancient 
name which is lost in its rival. Treveris is by its own 
people contracted into Trier, while by its neighbours it 
is cut short into Treves. But one who looks out from the 
amphitheatre beyond its walls on the city which boasts 
itself to have stood for thirteen hundred years longer than 
Rome, will be inclined to hold that the beauty of its 
position and the interest of its long history cannot lose 
their charm under any name. It was not without reason 
that the mythical Trebetas, son of Ninus, after wandering 
through all lands, pitched on the spot by the Mosel as the 
loveliest and richest site that he could find for the founda- 
tion of the first city which arose on European soil. . . . 

Trier holds, north of the Alps, a position which is in 
some respects analogous to the position of Ravenna south 
of the Alps. The points both of likeness and unlikeness 
between the two cities may be instructively compared. In 
physical position no two cities can well be more opposite. 
No two spots can be more unlike than Trier, with its hills, 
its river, and its bridge, and Ravenna, forsaken by the sea, 
left in its marshy flat, with its streets, which were once 



222 THE- CATHEDRAL OF TREVES. 

canals like those of Venice, now canals no longer. In 
their history the two cities have thus much in common, 
that each was a seat of the Imperial power of Rome in 
the days of its decline. Each too is remarkable for its 
rich store of buildings handed on from the days of its 
greatness, buildings which stamp upon each city an unique 
character of its own. But, when we more minutely com- 
pare either the history or the surviving antiquities of the 
two cities, when we compare the circumstances under 
which each city rose to greatness, we shall find on the 
whole less of likeness than of unlikeness. The difference 
may be summed up when we say that Trier is the city of 
Constantine, that Ravenna is the city of Honorius. . . . 

Ravenna has nothing of any consequence belonging 
either to heathen Roman or to mediaeval times ; its monu- 
ments belong to the days of Honorius and Placidia, to the 
days of the Gothic kingdom, to the very first days of the 
restored Imperial rule. To these, except one or two of 
the churches of Rome, there is nothing in the West to 
answer. The monuments of Trier are spread over a far 
wider space of time. They stretch from the first days of 
Roman occupation to an advanced stage of the Middle 
Ages. The mighty pile of the Black Gate, the Porta Nigra 
or Porta Mart'is^ a pile to which Ravenna, and Rome 
herself, can supply no rival, is a v/ork which it is hard to 
believe can belong to any days but those when the city 
was the dwelling-place of Emperors. Yet scholars are 
not lacking who argue that it really dates from the early 
days of the Roman only, from a date earlier than that 
which some other scholars assign to the first foundations 



THE CATHEDRAL OF TREVES. 223 

of the colony, from the days of Claudius. The amphi- 
theatre is said to date from the reign of Trajan. The 
basilica, so strangely changed into a Protestant church by 
the late King of Prussia, can hardly fail to be the work 
of Constantine. But, after all, the building at Trier 
which will most reward careful study is the metropolitan 
church. At the first glimpse it seems less unique than 
the Porta Nigra ; its distinct outline is massive and pictur- 
esque, but it is an outline with which every one who has 
seen many of the great churches of Germany must be 
thoroughly familiar. Or, if it has a special character of 
its own, it seems to come from the blending of the four 
towers of the main buildings with a fifth, the massive tower 
of the Liehfrauenkirche ^ which, in the general view, none 
would fancy to be one of the most perfect and graceful 
specimens of the early Germ.an Gothic of the Thirteenth 
Century. It is only gradually that the unique character 
of the building dawns on the inquirer. What at first sight 
seemed to be a church of the type of Mainz, Worms, and 
Speyer, and inferior to them in lacking the central tower 
or cupola, turns out to be something which has no parallel 
north of the Alps, nor, we may add, south of them either. 
It is a Roman building of the Sixth Century — none the 
less Roman for being built under a Frankish king — pre- 
serving large portions of a yet earlier building of the 
Fourth. The capitals of its mighty columns peep out 
from amid the later work, and fragments of the pillars lie 
about in the cloister and before the western door, as the 
like fragments do in the Forum of Trajan. Repaired and 
enlarged in the Eleventh Century in remarkably close 



224 "^^^ CATHEDRAL OF TREVES. 

imitation of the original design, the church has gone 
through a series of additions and recastings, in order to 
change it into the likeness of an ordinary mediaeval German 
church. Had St. Vital at Ravenna, had St. Sophia itself, 
stood where the Dom of Trier stands, the same misapplied 
labour would most likely have been bestowed upon them. 
But, well pleased as we should have been to have had such 
a building as this kept to us in its original form, there is 
no denying that those who enjoy spelling out the changes 
which a great building has gone through, comparing the 
statements of the local chroniclers with the evidence of 
the building itself — a process which, like every other 
process of discovery, is not without its charm — will find 
no more attractive problem of the kind than is supplied by 
the venerable minster of Trier. 

Historical and Architectural Sketches (London, 1876). 



THE VATICAN. 

AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE. 

THE hollow of the Janiculum between S. Onofrio 
and the Monte Mario is believed to have been 
the site of Etruscan divination. 

" Fauni vatesque canebant." 

Ennius. 

Hence the name, which is now only used in regard to the 
Papal palace and the Basilica of S. Peter, but which was 
once applied to the whole district between the foot of the 
hill and the Tiber near S. Angelo. 

" . . . Ut paterni 
Fluminis ripae, simul et jocosa 
Redderet laudes tibi Vatlcani 
Montis imago." 

Horace, Od. i. 20. 

Tacitus speaks of the unwholesome air of this quarter. 
In this district was the Circus of Caligula, adjoining the 
gardens of his mother Agrippina, decorated by the obelisk 
which now stands in the front of S. Peter's, near which 
many believe that S. Peter suffered martyrdom.^ 

Here Seneca describes that while Caligula was walking 

1 Pliny XXXV. 15. 
IS 



226 THE VATICAN. 

by torchlight he amused himself by the slaughter of a 
number of distinguished persons — senators and Roman 
ladies. Afterwards it became the Circus of Nero, who 
from his adjoining gardens used to watch the martyrdom 
of the Christians ^ — mentioned by Suetonius as " a race 
given up to a new and evil superstition" — and who used 
their living bodies, covered with pitch and set on fire, as 
torches for his nocturnal promenades. 

The first residence of the Popes at the Vatican was 
erected by S. Symmachus (a. d. 498—514) near the fore- 
court of the old S. Peter's, and here Charlemagne is 
believed to have resided on the occasion of his several 
visits to Rome during the reigns of Adrian I. (772—795) 
and Leo III. (795-816). During the Twelfth Century 
this ancient palace having fallen into decay, it was rebuilt 
in the Thirteenth by Innocent III. It was greatly enlarged 
by Nicholas III. (1277-81) ; but the Lateran continued to 
be the Papal residence, and the Vatican palace was only 
used on state occasions, and for the reception of any 
foreign sovereigns visiting Rome. After the return of the 
Popes from Avignon, the Lateran palace had fallen into 
decay, and, for the sake of the greater security afforded by 
the vicinity of S. Angelo, it was determined to make the 
Pontifical residence at the Vatican, and the first Conclave 
was held there in 1378, In order to increase its security, 
John XXIII. constructed the covered passage to S. Angelo 
in 1410. Nicholas V. (1447-55) had the idea of making 
it the most magnificent palace in the world, and of uniting 
in it all the government offices and dwellings of the 
^ Tac. Ann. xv. 44. 



THE VATICAN. 22^ 

cardinals. He wished to make it for Christendom that 
which the Milliarium Aureum in the Forum was to the 
Roman Empire, the centre whence all the messengers of 
the spiritual empire should go forth, bearing words of life, 
truth, and peace. -^ Unfortunately Nicholas died before he 
could carry out his designs. The building which he com- 
menced was finished by Alexander VI,, and still exists 
under the name of Tor di Borgia. In the reign of this 
Pope, his son Cesare murdered Alphonso, Duke of Bis- 
ceglia, husband of his sister Lucrezia, in the Vatican 
(August 1 8, 1500). To Paul II. was due the Court of 
S. Damasus. In 1473 Sixtus IV. built the Sixtine Chapel, 
and in 1490 " the Belvedere " was erected as a separate 
garden-house by Innocent VIII. from designs of Antonio 
da Pollajuolo. Julius II., with the aid of Bramante, 
united this villa to the palace by means of one vast court- 
yard, and erected the Loggie around the court of S. Dam- 
asus ; he also laid the foundation of the Vatican Museum 
in the gardens of the Belvedere. The Loggie were com- 
pleted by Leo X. ; the Sala Regia and the Paoline Chapel 
were built by Paul III. Sixtus V. divided the great court 
of Bramante into two by the erection of the library, and 
began the present residence of the Popes, which was 
finished by Clement VIII. (1592-1605). Urban VIII. 
built the Scala Regia; Clement XIV. and Pius VI., the 
Museo Pio-Clementino (for which the latter pulled down 
the chapel of Innocent VIII., full of precious frescoes by 
Mantegna); Pius VII., the Braccio Nuovo ; Leo XIL, 
the picture-gallery ; Gregory XVI., the Etruscan Museum, 
^ See Rio. 



228 THE VATICAN. 

and Pius IX., the handsome staircase leading to the court 
of Bramante. 

The length of the Vatican Palace is 1151 English feet; 
its breadth, 767. It has eight grand staircases, twenty 
courts, and is said to contain 11,000 chambers of different 
sizes. 

The principal entrance to the Vatican is at the end of 
the right colonnade of S. Peter's. Hence a door on the 
right opens upon the staircase leading to the Cortile di 
S. Damaso, and is the nearest way to all the collections, 
and the one by which visitors were admitted until the fall 
of the Papal government. The fountain of the Cortile, 
designed by Algardi in 1649, 's fed by the Acqua Dam- 
asiana, due to Pope Damasus in the Fourth Century. 

Following the great corridor, and passing on the left 
the entrance to the portico of S. Peter's, we reach the 
Scala Regia, a magnificent work of Bernini, watched by 
the picturesque Swiss guard of the Pope. Hence we enter 
the Sala Regia, built in the reign of Paul III. by Antonio 
di Sangallo, and used as a hall of audience for ambassadors. 
It is decorated with frescoes illustrative of the history of 
the Popes. 

On the right is the entrance of the Paoline Chapel 
(Cappella Paolina), also built (1540) by Antonio di San- 
gallo for Paul III. Its decorations are chiefly the v/ork of 
Sabbatini and F. Zucchero, but it contains two frescoes 
by Michelangelo. 

On the left of the approach from the Scala Regia is the 
Sixtine Chapel (Cappella Sistina), built by Baccio Pintelli 
in 1473 ^^^ Sixtus IV. 



THE VATICAN. 229 

The lower part of the walls of this wonderful chapel 
was formerly hung on festivals with the tapestries executed 
from the cartoons of Raffaelle ; the upper portion is 
decorated in fresco by the great Florentine masters of the 
Fifteenth Century. ... 

On the pillars between the windows are the figures of 
twenty-eight Popes, by Sandro Botticelli. . . . 

The avenue of pictures is a preparation for the sur- 
passing grandeur of the ceiling. 

The pictures from the Old Testament, beginning from 
the altar, are : — i. The Separation of Light and Dark- 
ness ; 2. The Creation of the Sun and Moon ; 3. The 
Creation of Trees and Plants ; 4. The Creation of Adam ; 
5. The Creation of Eve; 6. The Fall and the Expul- 
sion from Paradise ; 7. The Sacrifice of Noah ; 8. The 
Deluge ; 9. The Intoxication of Noah. 

The lower portion of the ceiling is divided into triangles 
occupied by the Prophets and Sibyls in solemn contem- 
plation, accompanied by angels and genii. Beginning 
from the left of the entrance, their order is — i. Joel; 
2. Sibylla Erythraea ; 3. Ezekiel ; 4. Sibylla Persica ; 5. 
Jonah; 6. Sibylla Libyca; 7. Daniel; 8. Sibylla Cumaea; 
9. Isaiah; 10. Sibylla Delphica. 

In the recesses between the Prophets and Sibyls are a 
series of lovely family groups representing the Genealogy 
of the Virgin, and expressive of calm expectation of the 
future. The four corners of the ceiling contain groups 
illustrative of the power of the Lord displayed in the 
especial deliverance of His chosen people. 

Only 3000 ducats were paid to Michelangelo for all his 



230 THE VATICAN. 

great work on the ceiling of the Sixtine ; less than a 
common decorator obtains in the Nineteenth Century. 

It was when Michelangelo was already in his sixtieth 
year that Clement VII. formed the idea of effacing the 
three pictures of Perugino at the end of the chapel, and 
employing him to paint the vast fresco of The Last Judg- 
ment in their place. It occupied the artist for seven years, 
and was finished in 1541, when Paul III. was on the 
throne. During this time Michelangelo frequently read 
and re-read the wonderful sermons of Savonarola, to refresh 
his mind, and that he might drink in the inspiration of 
their own religious awe and Dantesque imagination. . . . 

The small portion of the Vatican inhabited by the 
Pope is never seen except by those who are admitted to a 
special audience. The three rooms occupied by the pontiff 
are furnished with a simplicity which would be inconceiv- 
able in the abode of any other sovereign prince. The 
furniture is confined to the merest necessaries of life ; 
strange contrast to Lambeth and Fulham ! The apart- 
ment consists of the bare Green Saloon ; the Red Saloon, 
containing a throne flanked by benches ; and the bedroom, 
with yellow draperies, a large writing table, and a few 
pictures by old masters. The Papal life is a lonely one, 
as the dread of an accusation of nepotism has prevented 
any of the later Popes from having any of their family 
with them, and etiquette always obliges them to dine, etc., 
alone. Pius IX. seldom saw his family, but Leo XIII. is 
often visited twice a day by his relations — " La Sainte 
Famille," as they are generally called. 

No one, whatever the difference of creed, can look upon 



THE VATICAN. 23 I 

this building, inhabited by the venerable men who have 
borne so important a part in the history of Christianity 
and of Europe, without the deepest interest. . . . 

The windows of the Egyptian Museum look upon 
the inner Garden of the Vatican^ which may be reached by 
a door at the end of the long gallery of the Museo Chiara- 
monti, before ascending to the Torso. The garden which 
is thus entered, called Giardino della Pigna^ is in fact merely 
the second great quadrangle of the Vatican, planted, under 
Pius IX., with shrubs and flowers, now a desolate wilder- 
ness — its lovely garden having been destroyed by the 
present Vatican authorities to make way for a monumental 
column to the Council of 1870. Several interesting relics 
are preserved here. In the centre is the Pedestal of the 
Column of Antoninus P'lus^ found in 1709 on the Monte 
Citorio. The column was a simple memorial pillar of 
granite, erected by the two adopted sons of the Emperor, 
Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus. It was broken up to 
mend the obelisk of Psammeticus I. at the Monte Citorio. 
Among the reliefs of the pedestal is one of a winged genius 
guiding Antoninus and Faustina to Olympus. The modern 
pillar and statue are erections of Leo XIII. In front of 
the great semicircular niche of Bramante, at the end of the 
court-garden, is the famous Pigna^ a gigantic fir-cone, 
which is said once to have crowned the summit of the 
Mausoleum of Hadrian. Thence it v/as first removed to 
the front of the old basilica of S. Peter's, where it was 
used for a fountain. In the fresco of the old S. Peter's 
at S. Martino al Monte the pigna is introduced, but it is 
there placed in the centre of the nave, a position it never 



232 THE VATICAN. 

occupied. It bears the name of the bronze-founder who 
cast it — " P. Cincivs. P. L. Calvivs. fecit." Dante saw 
it at S. Peter's, and compares it to a giant's head (it is 
eleven feet high) which he saw through the mist in the 
last circle of hell, 

" La faccia mi parea longa e grossa 
Come la pina di S. Pietro in Roma." 

Inf. xxxi. 58. 

On either side of the pigna are two lovely bronze 
peacocks, which are said to have stood on either side of 
the entrance of Hadrian's Mausoleum. 

A flight of steps leads from this court to the narrow 
Terrace of the Navkella^ in front of the palace, so called 
from a bronze ship with which its fountain is decorated. 
The visitor should beware of the tricksome waterworks 
upon this terrace. 

Beyond the courtyard is the entrance to the larger 
garden, which may be reached in a carriage by the courts 
at the back of S. Peter's. Admittance is difficult to obtain, 
as the garden is constantly used by the Pope. Pius IX. 
used to ride here upon his white mule. It is a most 
delightful retreat for the hot days of May and June, and 
before that time its woods are carpeted with wild violets 
and anemones. No one who has not visited them can 
form any idea of the beauty of these ancient groves, in- 
terspersed with fountains and statues, but otherwise left to 
nature, and forming a fragment of sylvan scenery quite 
unassociated with the English idea of a garden. . . . 

The Sixteenth Century was the golden age for the 



THE VATICAN. 233 

Vatican. Then the splendid court of Leo X. was the 
centre of artistic and literary life, and the witty and 
pleasure-loving Pope made these gardens the scene of his 
banquets and concerts ; and, in a circle to which ladies 
were admitted, as in a secular court, listened to the recita- 
tions of the poets who sprang up under his protection, 
beneath the shadow of their woods. 

Walks in Rome (13th ed., London, 1896), 



THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

T is the admitted privilege of a custode who loves his 
cathedral to depreciate, in its comparison, all the other 
cathedrals of his country that resemble, and all the edifices 
on the globe that differ from it. But I love too many 
cathedrals — though I have never had the happiness of 
becoming the custode of even one — to permit myself the 
easy and faithful exercise of the privilege in question ; and 
I must vindicate my candour and my judgment in the out- 
set, by confessing that the Cathedral of Amiens has nothing 
to boast of in the way of towers, — that its centrzl^eche is 
merely the pretty caprice of a village carpenter, — that the 
total structure is in dignity inferior to Chartres, in sublimity 
to Beauvais, and in decorative splendour to Rheims, and in 
loveliness of figure sculpture to Bourges. It has nothing 
like the artful pointing and moulding of the arcades of 
Salisbury — nothing of the might of Durham ; no Daedalian 
inlaying like Florence, no glow of mythic fantasy like 
Verona. And yet, in all, and more than these, ways, out- 
shone or overpowered, the Cathedral of Amiens deserves 
the name given it by M. Viollet le Due — 
" The Parthenon of Gothic Architecture." . . , 
Whatever you wish to see, or are forced to leave unseen 
at Amiens, if the overwhelming responsibilities of your 




THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 235 

existence, and the inevitable necessities of precipitate loco- 
motion in their fulfilment, have left you so much as one 
quarter of an hour, not out of breath — for the contempla- 
tion of the capital of Picardy, give it wholly to the cathe- 
dral choir. Aisles and porches, lancet window^s and roses, 
you can see elsewhere as well as here — but such carpenter's 
work you cannot. It is late, — fully developed flamboyant 
just past the Fifteenth Century — and has some Flemish 
stolidity mixed with the playing French fire of it ; but wood- 
carving was the Picard's joy from his youth up, and, so far 
as I know, there is nothing else so beautiful cut out of the 
goodly trees of the world. 

Sweet and young-grained wood it is : oak, trained and 
chosen for such work, sound now as four hundred years 
since. Under the carver's hand it seems to cut like clay, 
to fold like silk, to grow like living branches, to leap like 
living flame. Canopy crowning canopy, pinnacle piercing 
pinnacle — it shoots and wreathes itself into an enchanted 
glade, inextricable, imperishable, fuller of leafage than any 
forest, and fuller of story than any book.^ 

1 Arnold Boulin, master-joiner (menuisier^ at Amiens, solicited the 
enterprise, and obtained it in the first months of the year 1508. A 
contract was drawn and an agreement made with him for the construc- 
tion of one hundred and twenty stalls with historical subjects, high 
backings, crownings, and pyramidal canopies. It was agreed that the 
principal executor should have seven sous of Tournay (a little less than 
the sou of France) a day, for himself and his apprentice, (threepence a 
day the two — say a shilling a week the master, and sixpence a week 
the man,) and for the superintendence of the whole work, twelve 
crowns a year, at the rate of twenty-four sous the crown ; (i. e. twelve 
shillings a year). The salary of the simple workman was only to be 
three sous a day. For the sculptures and histories of the seats, the 



236 THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 

I have never been able to make up my mind which w^as 
really the best w^ay of approaching the cathedral for the 
first time. . . . 

I think the best is to walk from the Hotel de France 
or the Place de Perigord, up the street of Three Pebbles, 
towards the railway station — stopping a little as you go, so 
as to get into a cheerful temper, and buying some bon-bons 
or tarts for the children in one of those charming patissier's 
shops on the left. Just past them, ask for the theatre; and 
just past that, you will find, also on the left, three open 
arches, through which you can turn passing the Palais de 
Justice, and go straight up to the south transept, which has 
really something about it to please everybody. It is simple 
and severe at the bottom, and daintily traceried and pin- 
nacled at the top, and yet seems all of a piece — though it 
isn't — and everybody ;7zZi;^Mike the taper and transparent 
fret-work of the jieche above, which seems to bend in the 
west wind, — though it does n't — at least, the bending is a 
long habit, gradually yielded into, with gaining grace and 
submissiveness, during the last three hundred years. And 
coming quite up to the porch, everybody must like the 
pretty French Madonna in the middle of it, with her head 
a little aside, and her nimbus switched a little aside too, like 
a becoming bonnet. A Madonna in decadence she is, 
though, for all, or rather by reason of all, her prettiness and 
her gay soubrette's smile ; and she has no business there, 

bargain was made separately with Antoine Avernier, image cutter, 
residing at Amiens, at the rate of thirty-two sous (sixteen pence), the 
piece. Most of the wood came from Clermont en Beauvoisis, near 
Amiens ; the finest, for the bas-reliefs from Holland, by St. Valery 
and Abbeville. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 237 

neither, for this is Saint Honore's porch, not her's ; and grim 
and grey Saint Honore used to stand there to receive you, — 
he is banished now to the north porch where nobody ever 
goes in. This was done long ago in the Fourteenth Cen- 
tury days when the people first began to find Christianity 
too serious, and devised a merrier faith for France, and 
would have bright glancing soubrette Madonnas everywhere, 
letting their own dark-eyed Joan of Arc be burnt for a 
witch. And thenceforward things went their merry way, 
straight on, fa allait^ fa ira to the merriest days of the 
guillotine. 

But they could still carve in the Fourteenth Century and 
the Madonna and her hawthorn-blossom lintel are worth 
your looking at, — much more the field above, of sculpture 
as delicate and more calm, which tells you Saint Honore's 
own story, little talked of now in his Parisian faubourg. . . . 

A Gothic cathedral has, almost always, these five great 
entrances ; which may be easily, if at first attentively, 
recognized under the titles of the Central door (or porch), 
the Northern door, the Southern door, the North door, and 
the South door. But when we use the terms right and left, 
we ought always to use them as in going out of the cathedral, 
or walking down the nave, — the entire north side and aisles 
of the building being its right side, and the south its left, — 
these terms being only used well and authoritatively, when 
they have reference either to the image of Christ on the 
apse or on the rood, or else to the central statue, whether 
of Christ, the Virgin, or a saint in the west front. At 
Amiens, this central statue, on the " trumeau " or supporting 
and dividing pillar of the central porch, is of Christ Im- 



238 THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 

manuel, — God ivith us. On His right hand and His left, 
occupying the entire walls of the central porch, are the 
apostles and the four greater prophets. The twelve minor 
prophets stand side by side on the front, three on each of its 
great piers. 

The northern porch is dedicated to St. Firman, the first 
Christian missionary to Amiens. 

The southern porch to the Virgin. 

But these are both treated as withdrawn behind the great 
foundation of Christ and the Prophets ; and their narrow 
recesses partly conceal their sculpture until you enter them. 
What you have first to think of, and read, is the scripture 
of the great central porch and the facade itself. 

You have then in the centre of the front, the image of 
Christ Himself, receiving you : " I am the Way, the truth 
and the life." And the order of the attendant powers may 
be best understood by thinking of them as placed on Christ's 
right and left hand : this being also the order which the 
builder adopts in his Scripture history on the facade — so 
that it is to be read from left to right — /'. e. from Christ's 
left to Christ's right, as He sees it. Thus, therefore, 
following the order of the great statues : first in the central 
porch, there are six apostles on Christ's right hand, and 
six on His left. On His left hand, next Him, Peter; then 
in receding order, Andrew, James, John, Matthew, Simon ; 
on His right hand, next Him, Paul ; and in receding order, 
James the Bishop, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, and Jude. 
These opposite ranks of the Apostles occupy what may be 
called the apse or curved bay of the porch, and form a 
nearly semicircular group, clearly visible as we approach. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 239 

But on the sides of the porch, outside the hnes of apostles, 
and not clearly seen till we enter the porch are the four 
greater prophets. On Christ's left, Isaiah and Jeremiah, on 
His right, Ezekiel and Daniel. 

Then in front, along the whole facade — read in order 
from Christ's left to His right — come the series of the 
twelve minor prophets, three to each of the four piers of the 
temple, beginning at the south angle with Hosea, and 
ending with Malachi. 

As you look full at the facade in front, the statues which 
fill the minor porches are either obscured in their narrower 
recesses or withdrawn behind each other so as to be unseen. 
And the entire mass of the front is seen, literally, as built on 
the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, Jesus Christ 
Himself being the chief corner-stone. Literally that ; for 
the receding Porch is a deep " angulus " and its mid-pillar is 
the " Head of the Corner." 

Built on the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, that 
is to say of the Prophets who foretold Christy and the 
Apostles who declared Him. Though Moses was an 
Apostle of God^ he is not here — though Elijah was a 
Prophet of God^ he is not here. The voice of the entire 
building is that of the Heaven at the Transfiguration. 
" This is my beloved Son, hear ye Him." 

There is yet another and a greater prophet still, who, as it 
seems at first, is not here. Shall the people enter the gates 
of the temple, singing " Hosanna to the Son of David ; " 
and see no image of his father, then.? — Christ Himself 
declare, " I am the root and offspring of David ; " and yet 
the Root have no sign near it of its Earth ? 



240 THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 

Not so. David and his Son are together. David is the 
pedestal of the Christ. 

We will begin our examination of the Temple front, 
therefore with this goodly pedestal stone. The statue of 
David is only two-thirds life-size, occupying the niche in 
front of the pedestal. He holds his sceptre in his right 
hand, the scroll in his left. King and Prophet, type of all 
Divinely right doing, and right claiming, and right proclaim- 
ing, kinghood forever. 

The pedestal of which this statue forms the fronting or 
western sculpture, is square, and on the two sides of it are 
two flowers in vases, on its north side the lily, and on its 
south the rose. And the entire monolith is one of the 
noblest pieces of Christian sculpture in the world. 

Above this pedestal comes a minor one, bearing in front 
of it a tendril of vine, which completes the floral symbolism 
of the whole. The plant which I have called a lily is not 
the Fleur de Lys, nor the Madonna's, but an ideal one with 
bells like the crown Imperial (Shakespeare's type of " lilies 
of all kinds "), representing the ?node of growth of the lily of 
the valley, which could not be sculptured so large in its 
literal form without appearing monstrous, and is exactly 
expressed in this tablet — as it fulfils, together with the 
rose and vine, its companions, the triple saying of Christ, 
" I am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the Valley." 
" I am the true Vine." 

On the side of the upper stone are supporters of a 
different character. Supporters, — not captives nor victims ; 
the Cockatrice and Adder. Representing the most active 
evil principles of the earth, as in their utmost malignity ; 



THE CATHEDRAL OF AMIENS. 24I 

Still Pedestals of Christ, and even in their deadly life, ac- 
complishing His final will. 

Both creatures are represented accurately in the mediaeval 
traditional form, the cockatrice half dragon, half cock ; the 
deaf adder laying one ear against the ground and stopping 
the other with her tail. 

The first represents the infidelity of Pride. The cockatrice 
— king serpent or highest serpent — saying that he is God, 
and will be God. 

The second, the infidelity of Death. The adder (nieder 
or nether snake) saying that he is mud and will be mud. 

Lastly, and above all, set under the feet of the statue of 
Christ Himself, are the lion and dragon; the images of 
Carnal sin, or Human sin, as distinguished from the Spir- 
itual and Intellectual sin of Pride, by which the angels 
also fell. 

The Bible of A/niens (Our Fathers Hanie Told US'), (Sunnyside, 
Orpington, Kent, 1884). 



16 



THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS. 

THE external aspect has nothing worthy of note. The 
only objects that attract the eye are the four high 
white minarets that rise at the four corners of the edifice, 
upon pedestals as big as houses. The famous cupola looks 
small. It appears impossible that it can be the same dome 
that swells into the blue air, like the head of a Titan, and 
is seen from Pera, from the Bosphorus, from the Sea of 
Marmora, and from the hills of Asia. It is a flattened 
dome, flanked by two half domes, covered with lead, and 
perforated with a wreath of windows, supported upon four 
walls painted in stripes of pink and white, sustained in their 
turn by enormous bastions, around which rise confusedly 
a number of small mean buildings, baths, schools, mauso- 
leums, hospitals, etc., which hide the architectural forms 
of the basilica. You see nothing but a heavy, irregular 
mass, of a faded colour, naked as a fortress, and not to all 
appearance large enough to hold within it the immense 
nave of Santa Sofia's church. Of the ancient basilica 
nothing is really visible but the dome, which has lost the 
silvery splendour that once made it visible, according to 
the Greeks, from the summit of Olympus. All the rest 
is Mussulman. One summit was built by Mahomet the 



THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 243 

Conqueror, one by Selim II., the other two by Amurath III. 
Of the same Amurath are the buttresses built at the end 
of the Sixteenth Century to support the walls shaken by 
an earthquake, and the ertormous crescent in bronze 
planted upon the top of the dome, of which the gilding 
alone cost fifty thousand ducats. 

On every side the mosque overwhelms and masks the 
church, of which the head only is free, though over that 
also the four imperial minarets keep watch and ward. On 
the eastern side there is a door ornamented by six columns 
of porphyry and marble ; at the southern side another door 
by which you enter a court, surrounded by low, irregular 
buildings, in the midst of which bubbles a fountain for 
ablution, covered by an arched roof with eight columns. 
Looked at from without, Santa Sofia can scarcely be 
distinguished from the other mosques of Stamboul, unless 
by its inferior lightness and whiteness ; much less would 
it pass for the " greatest temple in the world after Saint 
Peter's." ... 

Between the four enormous pilasters which form a 
square in the middle of the basilica, rise, to the right and 
left as you enter, eight marvellous columns of green breccia 
from which spring the most graceful arches, sculptured 
with foliage, forming an elegant portico on either side 
of the nave, and sustaining at a great height two vast 
galleries, which present two more ranges of columns and 
sculptured arches. A third gallery which communicates 
with the two first, runs along the entire side where the 
entrance is, and opens upon the nave with three great 
arches, sustained by twin columns. Other minor galleries, 



244 I'^E MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 

supported by porphyry columns, cross the four temples 
posted at the extremity of the nave and sustain other 
columns bearing tribunes. This is the basilica. The 
mosque is, as it were, planted in its bosom and attached 
to its walls. The Mirah^ or niche which indicates the 
direction of Mecca, is cut in one of the pilasters of the 
apse. To the right of it and high up is hung one of 
the four carpets which Mahomet used in prayer. Upon 
the corner of the apse, nearest the M'lrah^ at the top of a 
very steep little staircase, flanked by two balustrades of 
marble sculptured with exquisite delicacy, under an odd 
conical roof, between two triumphal standards of Mahomet 
Second, is the pulpit where the Ratib goes up to read the 
Koran, with a drawn scimetar in his hand, to indicate that 
Santa Sofia is a mosque acquired by <:onquest. Opposite 
the pulpit is the tribune of the Sultan, closed with a gilded 
lattice. Other pulpits or platforms, furnished with balus- 
trades sculptured in open work, and ornamented with small 
marble columns and arabesque arches, extend here and 
there along the walls, or project towards the centre of the 
nave. To the right and left of the entrance, are two 
enormous alabaster urns, brought from the ruins of Per- 
gamo, by Amurath III. Upon the pilasters, at a great 
height are suspended immense green disks, with inscrip- 
tions from the Koran in letters of gold. Underneath, 
attached to the v/alls, are large cartouches of porphyry 
inscribed with the names of Allah, Mahomet, and the first 
four Caliphs. In the angles formed by the four arches 
that sustain the cupola, may still be seen the gigantic wings 
of four mosaic cherubim, whose faces are concealed by 



THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 245 

gilded rosettes. From the vaults of the domes depend 
innumerable thick silken cords, to which are attached 
ostrich eggs, bronze lamps, and globes of crystal. Here 
and there are seen lecterns, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and 
copper, with manuscript Korans upon them. The pave- 
ment is covered with carpets and mats. The walls are 
bare, whitish, yellowish, or dark grey, still ornamented here 
and there with faded mosaics. The general aspect is 
gloomy and sad. 

The chief marvel of the mosque is the great dome. 
Looked at from the nave below, it seems indeed, as 
Madame de Stael said of the dome of Saint Peter's, like an 
abyss suspended over one's head. It is immensely high, 
has an enormous circumference, and its depth is only one- 
sixth of its diameter; which makes it appear still larger. 
At its base a gallery encircles it, and above the gallery 
there is a row of forty arched windows. In the top is 
written the sentence pronounced by Mahomet Second, as 
he sat on his horse in front of the high altar on the day 
of the taking of Constantinople : " Allah is the light of 
heaven and of earth ; " and some of the letters, which are 
white upon a black ground, are nine yards long. As every 
one knows, this aerial prodigy could not be constructed 
with the usual materials ; and it was built of pumice-stone 
that floats on water, and with bricks from the island of 
Rhodes, five of which scarcely weigh as much as one 
ordinary brick. . . . 

When you have visited the nave and the dome, you 
have only begun to see Santa Sofia. For example, who- 
ever has a shade of historic curiosity may dedicate an hour 



246 THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 

to the columns. Here are the spoils of all the temples in 
the world. The columns of green breccia which support 
the two great galleries, were presented to Justinian by the 
magistrates of Ephesus, and belonged to the Temple of 
Diana that was burned by Erostratus. The eight porphyry 
columns that stand two and two between the pilasters 
belonged to the Temple of the Sun built by Aurelian at 
Balbek. Other columns are from the Temple of Jove at 
Cizicum, from the Temple of Helios of Palmyra, from 
the temples of Thebes, Athens, Rome, the Troad, the 
Ciclades, and from Alexandria ; and they present an infinite 
variety of sizes and colours. Among the columns, the 
balustrades, the pedestals, and the slabs which remain of 
the ancient lining of the walls, may be seen marbles from 
all the ruins of the Archipelago; from Asia Minor, from 
Africa and from Gaul. The marble of the Bosphorus, 
white spotted with black, contrasts with the black Celtic 
marble veined with white ; the green marble of Laconia 
is reflected in the azure marble of Lybia ; the speckled 
porphyry of Egypt, the starred granite of Thessaly, the red 
and white striped stone of Jassy, mingle their colours with 
the purple of the Phrygian marble, the rose of that of 
Synada, the gold of the marble of Mauritania, and the 
snow of the marble of Paros. . . . 

From above can be embraced at once with the eye and 
mind all the life of the mosque. There are to be seen 
Turks on their knees, with their foreheads touching the 
pavement ; others erect like statues with their hands before 
their faces, as if they were studying the lines in their 
palms ; some seated cross-legged at the base of columns, 



THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOFIA. 247 

as if they were reposing under the shadow of trees ; a 
veiled woman on her knees in a solitary corner ; old men 
seated before the lecterns, reading the Koran ; an imauin 
hearing a group of boys reciting sacred verses ; and here 
and there, under the distant arcades and in the galleries, 
imaum^ ratib^ mue%zin^ servants of the mosque in strange 
costumes, coming and going silently as if they did not 
touch the pavement. The vague harmony formed by the 
low, monotonous voices of those reading or praying, those 
thousand strange lamps, that clear and equal light, that 
deserted apse, those vast silent galleries, that immensity, 
those memories, that peace, leave in the soul an impression 
of mystery and grandeur which words cannot express, nor 
time eiFace. 

Constantinople (London, 1878, translation by C. Tilton). 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 

T is said that the line in Heber's " Palestine " which 
describes the rise of Solomon's temple originally ran — 

" Like the green grass, the noiseless fabric grew ; " 

and that, at Sir Walter Scott's suggestion, it was altered to 
its present form — 

" Like some tall palm, the noiseless fabric sprung." 

Whether we adopt the humbler or the grander image, the 
comparison of the growth of a fine building to that of a 
natural product is full of instruction. But the growth of 
an historical edifice like Westminster Abbey needs a more 
complex figure to do justice to its formation : a venerable 
oak, with gnarled and hollow trunk, and spreading roots, 
and decaying bark, and twisted branches, and green shoots ; 
or a coral reef extending itself with constantly new accre- 
tions, creek after creek, and islet after islet. One after 
another, a fresh nucleus of life is formed, a new combina- 
tion produced, a larger ramification thrown out. In this 
respect Westminster Abbey stands alone amongst the 
edifices of the world. There are, it may be, some which 
surpass it in beauty or grandeur; there are others, certainly, 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 249 

which surpass it in depth and sublimity of association ; but 
there is none which has been entwined by so many con- 
tinuous threads with the history of a whole nation. . . . 

If the original foundation of the Abbey can be traced 
back to Sebert, the name, probably, must have been given 
in recollection of the great Roman sanctuary, whence 
Augustine, the first missionary, had come. And Sebert 
was believed to have dedicated his church to St. Peter in 
the Isle of Thorns, in order to balance the compliment he 
had paid to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill : a reappearance, 
in another form, of the counterbalancing claims of the rights 
of Diana and Apollo — the earliest stage of that rivalry 
which afterwards expressed itself in the proverb of " rob- 
bing Peter to pay Paul." 

This thin thread of tradition, which connected the ruinous 
pile in the river-island with the Roman reminiscences of 
Augustine, was twisted firm and fast round the resolve of 
Edward ; and by the concentration of his mind on this 
one subject was raised the first distinct idea of an Abbey, 
which the Kings of England should regard as their peculiar 
treasure. . . . 

The Abbey had been fifteen years in building. The 
King had spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the 
kingdom. It was to be a marvel of its kind. As in its 
origin it bore the traces of the fantastic childish character 
of the King and of the age, in its architecture it bore 
the stamp of the peculiar position which Edward occu- 
pied in English history between Saxon and Norman. By 
birth he was a Saxon, but in all else he was a foreigner. 
Accordingly, the Church at Westminster was a wide 



250 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

sweeping innovation on all that had been seen before. 
" Destroying the old building," he says in his Charter, " I 
have built up a new one from the very foundation." Its 
fame as " a new style of composition " lingered in the 
minds of men for generations. It was the first cruciform 
church in England, from which all the rest of like shape 
were copied — an expression of the increasing hold which 
the idea of the Crucifixion in the Tenth Century had laid 
on the imagination of Europe. Its massive roof and pillars 
formed a contrast with the rude rafters and beams of the 
common Saxon churches. Its very size — occupying, as 
it did, almost the whole area of the present building — was 
in itself portentous. The deep foundations, of large square 
blocks of grey stone, were duly laid. The east end was 
rounded into an apse. A tower rose in the centre crowned 
by a cupola of wood. At the western end were erected 
two smaller towers, with five large bells. The hard strong 
stones were richly sculptured. The windows were filled 
with stained glass. The roof was covered with lead. The 
cloisters, chapter-house, refectory, dormitory, the infirmary, 
with its spacious chapel, if not completed by Edward, were 
all begun, and finished in the next generation on the same 
plan. This structure, venerable as it would be if it had 
lasted to our time, has almost entirely vanished. Possibly 
one vast dark arch in the southern transept — certainly the 
substructures of the dormitory, with their huge pillars, 
"• grand and regal at the bases and capitals " — the massive 
low-browed passage leading from the great cloister to Little 
Dean's Yard — and some portions of the refectory and of 
the infirmary chapel, remain as specimens of the work 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. • 25 1 

which astonished the last age of the Anglo-Saxon and the 
first age of the Norman monarchy. . . . 

In the earliest and nearly the only representation which 
exists of the Confessor's building — that in the Bayeux 
Tapestry — there is the figure of a man on the roof, with 
one hand resting on the tower of the Palace of West- 
minster, and with the other grasping the weathercock of 
the Abbey. The probable intention of this figure is to 
indicate the close contiguity of the two buildings. If so, 
it is the natural architectural expression of a truth valuable 
everywhere, but especially dear to Englishmen. The close 
incorporation of the Palace and the Abbey from its earliest 
days is a likeness of the whole English Constitution — a 
combination of things sacred and things common — a union 
of the regal, legal, lay element of the nation with its reli- 
gious, clerical, ecclesiastical tendencies, such as can be found 
hardly elsewhere in Christendom. The Abbey is secular 
because It is sacred, and sacred because it is secular. It is 
secular in the common English sense, because it is " ssecu- 
lar " in the far higher French and Latin sense : a " saccular " 
edifice, a " saccular " institution — an edifice and an insti- 
tution which has grown with the growth of ages, which has 
been furrowed with the scars and cares of each succeeding 
century. 

A million wrinkles carve its skin ; 

A thousand winters snow'd upon its breast, 

From cheek, and throat, and chin. 

The vast political pageants of which it has been the theatre, 
the dust of the most worldly laid side by side with the dust 
of the most saintly, the wrangles of divines or statesmen 



252 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

which have disturbed its sacred peace, the clash of arms 
which has pursued fugitive warriors and princes into the 
shades of its sanctuary — even the traces of Westminster 
boys who have played in its cloisters and inscribed their 
names on its walls — belong to the story of the Abbey no 
less than its venerable beauty, its solemn services, and its 
lofty aspirations. . . . 

The Chapel of Henry VII. is indeed well called by his 
name, for it breathes of himself through every part. It is 
the most signal example of the contrast between his close- 
ness in life, and his " magnificence in the structures he had 
left to posterity" — King's College Chapel, the Savoy, 
Westminster. Its very style was believed to have been a 
reminiscence of his exile, being ^' learned in France," by 
himself and his companion Fox. His pride in its grandeur 
was commemorated by the ship, vast for those times, which 
he built, " of equal cost with his Chapel," " which after- 
wards, in the reign of Queen Mary, sank in the sea and 
« vanished in a moment." 

It v/as to be his chantry as well as his tomb, for he was 
determined not to be behind the Lancastrian princes in 
devotion ; and this unusual anxiety for the sake of a soul 
not too heavenward in its affections expended itself in the 
immense apparatus of services which he provided. Almost 
a second Abbey was needed to contain the new establish- 
ment of monks, who were to sing in their stalls " as long 
as the world shall endure." Almost a second Shrine, sur- 
rounded by its blazing tapers, and shining like gold with its 
glittering bronze, was to contain his remains. 

To the Virgin Mary, to whom the chapel was dedicated 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 253 

he had a special devotion. Her " in all his necessities he 
had made his continual refuge ; " and her figure, accordingly, 
looks down upon his grave from the east end, between the 
apostolic patrons of the Abbey, Peter and Paul, with " the 
holy company of heaven — that is to say, angels, arch- 
angels, patriarchs, prophets, apostles, evangelists, martyrs, 
confessors and virgins," to " whose singular mediation and 
prayers he also trusted," including the royal saints of 
Britain, St. Edward, St. Edmund, St. Oswald, St. Margaret 
of Scotland, v/ho stand, as he directed, sculptured, tier above 
tier, on every side of the Chapel ; some retained from the 
ancient Lady Chapel ; the greater part the work of his own 
age. Around his tomb stand his " accustomed Avours or 
guardian saints" to whom "he calls and cries" — "St. 
Michael, St. John the Baptist, St, John the Evangelist, St. 
George, St. Anthony, St. Edward, St. Vincent, St. Anne, 
St. Mary Magdalene, and St. Barbara," each with their 
peculiar emblems, — "so to aid, succour, and defend him, 
that the ancient and ghostly enemy, nor none other evil or 
damnable spirit, have no power to invade him, nor with 
their wickedness to annoy him, but with holy prayers to be 
intercessors to his Maker and Redeemer." These were 
the adjurations of the last mediaeval King, as the Chapel 
was the climax of the latest mediaeval architecture. In 
the very urgency of the King's anxiety for the perpetuity 
of these funeral ceremonies, we seem to discern an uncon- 
scious presentiment lest their days were numbered. 

But, although in this sense the Chapel hangs on tena- 
ciously to the skirts of the ancient Abbey and the ancient 
Church, yet that solemn architectural pause between the 



254 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

two — which arrests the most careless observer, and renders 
it a separate structure, a foundation " adjoining the Abbey " 
rather than forming part of it — corresponds with mar- 
vellous fidelity to the pause and break in English history 
of which Henry VII. 's reign is the expression. It is the 
close of the Middle Ages : the apple of Granada in its 
ornaments shows that the last Crusade was over ; its flow- 
ing draperies and classical attitudes indicate that the 
Renaissance had already begun. It is the end of the 
Wars of the Roses, combining Henry's right of conquest 
with his fragile claim of hereditary descent. On the one 
hand, it is the glorification of the victory of Bosworth. 
The angels, at the four corners of the tomb, held or hold 
the likeness of the crown which he won on that famous 
day. In the stained-glass we see the same crown hanging 
on the green bush in the fields of Leicestershire. On the 
other hand, like the Chapel of King's College at Cambridge, 
it asserts everywhere the memory of the " holy Henry's 
shade"; the Red Rose of Lancaster appears in every pane 
of glass : and in every corner is the Portcullis — the " Alters 
securitas," as he termed it, with an allusion to its own 
meaning, and the double safeguard of his succession — 
which he derived through John of Gaunt from the Beau- 
fort Castle in Anjou, inherited from Blanche of Navarre 
by Edmund Crouchback ; whilst Edward IV. and Eliza- 
beth of York are commemorated by intertwining these 
Lancastrian symbols with the Greyhound of Cecilia Neville, 
wife of Richard, Duke of York, with the Rose in the 
Sun, which scattered the mists at Barnet, and the Falcon 
on the Fetterlock, by which the first Duke of York ex- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 255 

pressed to his descendants that " he was locked up from 
the hope of the kingdom, but advising them to be quiet 
and silent, as God knoweth what may come to pass." 

It is also the revival of the ancient, Celtic, British ele- 
ment in the English monarchy, after centuries of eclipse. 
It is a strange and striking thought, as we mount the 
steps of Henry VII. 's Chapel, that we enter there a mauso- 
leum of princes, whose boast it was to be descended, not 
from the Confessor or the Conqueror, but from Arthur 
and Llewellyn ; and that round about the tomb, side by 
side with the emblems of the great English Houses, is to 
be seen the Red Dragon of the last British king, Cad- 
wallader — " the dragon of the great Pendragonship " of 
Wales, thrust forward by the Tudor king in every direc- 
tion, to supplant the hated White Boar of his departed 
enemy — the fulfilment, in another sense than the old 
Welsh bards had dreamt, of their prediction that the 
progeny of Cadwallader should reign again. . . . 

We have seen how, by a gradual but certain instinct, 
the main groups have formed themselves round particular 
centres of death : how the Kings ranged themselves 
round the Confessor ; how the Prince and Courtiers clung 
to the skirts of Kings ; how out of the graves of the 
Courtiers were developed the graves of the Heroes ; how 
Chatham became the centre of the Statesmen, Chaucer of 
the Poets, Purcell of the Musicians, Casaubon of the 
Scholars, Newton of the Men of Science : how, even in 
the exceptional details, natural affinities may be traced ; 
how Addison was buried apart from his brethren in letters, 
in the royal shades of Henry VII. 's Chapel, because he 



256 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

clung to the vault of his own loved Montague ; how 
Ussher lay beside his earliest instructor, Sir James Fuller- 
ton, and Garrick at the foot of Shakespeare, and Spelman 
opposite his revered Camden, and South close to his 
master Busby, and Stephenson to his fellow-craftsman 
Telford, and Grattan to his hero Fox, and Macaulay be- 
neath the statue of his favourite Addison. 

Xhese special attractions towards particular graves and 
monuments may interfere with the general uniformity of 
the Abbey, but they make us feel that it is not a mere 
dead museum, that its cold stones are warmed with the 
life-blood of human affections and personal partiality. It 
is said that the celebrated French sculptor of the monu- 
ment of Peter the Great at St. Petersburg, after showing 
its superiority in detail to the famous equestrian statue of 
Marcus Aurelius at Rome, ended by the candid avowal, 
" Et cependant cette mauvaise bete est vivante^ et la mienne est 
morte." Perhaps we may be allowed to reverse the saying, 
and when we contrast the irregularities of Westminster 
Abbey with the uniform congruity of Salisbury or the 
Valhalla, may reflect, " Cette belle bete est morte^ mais la 
m'lenne est vivante." 

Historical Memorials of Westminster Abbey (London, 1866). 



THE PARTHENON. 

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 

''ROM whatever point the plain of Athens with its 
semicircle of greater and lesser hills may be sur- 
veyed, it always presents a picture of dignified and lustrous 
beauty. The Acropolis is the centre of this landscape, 
splendid as a work of art with its crown of temples ; and 
the sea, surmounted by the long low hills of the Morea, is 
the boundary to which the eye is irresistibly led. Moun- 
tains and islands and plain alike are made of limestone, 
hardening here and there into marble, broken into delicate 
and varied forms, and sprinkled with a vegetation of low 
shrubs and brushwood so sparse and slight that the naked 
rock in every direction meets the light. This rock is 
gcey and colourless ; viewed in the twilight of a misty 
day, it shows the dull, tame uniformity of bone. With- 
out the sun it is asleep and sorrowful. But by reason of 
this very deadness, the limestone of Athenian landscape is 
always ready to take the colours of the air and sun. In 
noonday it smiles with silvery lustre, fold upon fold of 
the indented hills and islands melting from the brightness 
of the sea into' the untempered brilliance of the sky. At 
dawn and sunset the same rocks array themselves with 
a celestial robe of rainbow-woven hues: islands, sea, and 

17 



258 THE PARTHENON. 

mountains, far and near, burn with saffron, violet, and 
rose, with the tints of beryl and topaz, sapphire and 
almandine and amethyst, each in due order and at proper 
distances. The fabled dolphin in its death could not have 
showed a more brilliant succession of splendours waning 
into splendours through the whole chord of prismatic 
colours. This sensitiveness of the Attic limestone to 
every modification of the sky's light gives a peculiar 
spirituality to the landscape. . . . 

Seen from a distance, the Acropolis presents nearly the 
same appearance as it offered to Spartan guardsmen when 
they paced the ramparts of Deceleia. Nature around is 
unaltered. Except that more villages, enclosed with olive- 
groves and vineyards, were sprinkled over those bare hills 
in classic days, no essential change in the landscape has 
taken place, no transformation, for example, of equal 
magnitude with that which converted the Campagna of 
Rome from a plain of cities to a poisonous solitude. All 
through the centuries which divide us from the age of 
Hadrian — centuries unfilled, as far as Athens is concerned, 
with memorable deeds or national activity — the Acropolis 
has stood uncovered to the sun. The tones of the marble 
of Pentelicus have daily grown more golden ; decay has 
here and there invaded frieze and capital; war too has 
done its work, shattering the Parthenon in 1687 by the 
explosion of a powder-magazine, and the Propylaea in 
1656 by a similar accident, and seaming the colonnades 
that still remain with cannon-balls in 1827. Yet in spite 
of time and violence the Acropolis survives, a miracle of 
beauty : like an everlasting flower, through all that lapse 



THE PARTHENON. 259 

of years it has spread its coronal of marbles to the air, 
unheeded. And now, more than ever, its temples seem 
to be incorporate with the rock they crown. The slabs 
of column and basement have grown together by long 
pressure or molecular adhesion into a coherent whole. 
Nor have weeds or creeping ivy invaded the glittering 
fragments that strew the sacred hill. The sun's kiss alone 
has caused a change from white to amber-hued or russet. 
Meanwhile, the exquisite adaptation of Greek building to 
Greek landscape has been enhanced rather than impaired 
by that " unimaginable touch of time," which has broken 
the regularity of outline, softened the chisel-work of the 
sculptor, and confounded the painter's fretwork in one 
tint of glowing gold. The Parthenon, the Erechtheum, 
and the Propylaea have become one with the hill on which 
they cluster, as needful to the scenery around them as the 
everlasting mountains, as sympathetic as the rest of nature 
to the successions of morning and evening, which waken 
them to passionate life by the magic touch of colour. . . . 
In like manner, when moonlight, falling aslant upon 
the Propylaea, restores the marble masonry to its original 
whiteness, and the shattered heaps of ruined colonnades 
are veiled in shadow, and every form seems larger, grander, 
and more perfect than by day, it is well to sit on the 
lowest steps, and looking upwards, to remember what 
processions passed along this way bearing the sacred 
peplus to Athene. The Panathenaic pomp, which Pheidias 
and his pupils carved upon the friezes of the Parthenon, 
took place once in five years, on one of the last days of 
July. All the citizens joined in the honour paid to their 



260 THE PARTHENON. 

patroness. Old men bearing olive branches, young men 
clothed in bronze, chapleted youths singing the praise of 
Pallas in prosodial hymns, maidens carrying holy vessels, 
aliens bending beneath the weight of urns, servants of the 
temple leading oxen crowned with fillets, troops of horsemen 
reining in impetuous steeds : all these pass before us in 
the frieze of Pheidias. But to our imagination must be 
left what he has refrained from sculpturing, the chariot 
formed like a ship, in which the most illustrious nobles 
of Athens sat, splendidly arrayed, beneath the crocus- 
coloured curtain or peplus outspread upon a mast. Some 
concealed machinery caused this car to move ; but whether 
it passed through the Propylaea, and entered the Acropolis, 
admits of doubt. It is, however, certain that the proces- 
sion which ascended those steep slabs, and before whom 
the vast gates of the Propylsea swang open with the 
clangour of resounding bronze, included not only the 
citizens of Athens and their attendant aliens, but also 
troops of cavalry and chariots ; for the mark of chariot- 
wheels can still be traced upon the rock. The ascent is 
so abrupt that this multitude moved but slowly. Splen- 
did indeed, beyond any pomp of modern ceremonial, must 
have been the spectacle of the well-ordered procession, 
advancing through those giant colonnades to the sound of 
flutes and solemn chants — the shrill clear voices of boys 
in antiphonal chorus rising above the confused murmurs 
of such a crowd, the chafing of horses' hoofs upon the 
stone, and the lowing of bewildered oxen. To realise 
by fancy the many-coloured radiance of the temples, and 
the rich dresses of the votaries illuminated by that sharp 



THE PARTHENON. 261 

light of a Greek sun, which defines outline and shadow 
and gives value to the faintest hue, would be impossible. 
All we can know for positive about the chromatic decora- 
tion of the Greeks is, that whiteness artificially subdued 
to the tone of ivory prevailed throughout the stonework 
of the buildings, while blue and red and green in distinct, 
yet interwoven patterns, added richness to the fretwork 
and the sculpture of pediment and frieze. The sacra- 
mental robes of the worshippers accorded doubtless with 
this harmony, wherein colour was subordinate to light, and 
light was toned to softness. 

Musing thus upon the staircase of the Propylaea, we 
may say with truth that all our modern art is but child's 
play to that of the Greeks. Very soul-subduing is the 
gloom of a cathedral like the Milanese Duomo, when 
the incense rises in blue clouds athwart the bands of sun- 
light falling from the dome, and the crying of choirs up- 
borne on the wings of organ music fills the whole vast 
space with a mystery of melody. Yet such ceremonial 
pomps as this are but as dreams and shapes of visions, 
when compared with the clearly defined splendours of a 
Greek procession through marble peristyles in open air 
beneath the sun and sky. That spectacle combined the 
harmonies of perfect human forms in movement with the 
divine shapes of statues, the radiance of carefully selected 
vestments with hues inwrought upon pure marble. The 
rhythms and melodies of the Doric mood were sympathetic 
to the proportions of the Doric colonnades. The grove 
of pillars through which the pageant passed grew from 
the living rock into shapes of beauty, fulfilling by the 



262 THE PARTHENON. 

inbreathed spirit of man Nature's blind yearning aftet 
absolute completion. The sun himself — not thwarted 
by artificial gloom, or tricked with alien colours of stained 
glass — was made to minister in all his strength to a pomp, 
the pride of which was a display of form in manifold 
magnificence. The ritual of the Greeks was the ritual 
of a race at one with Nature, glorying in its afiiliation to 
the mighty mother of all life, and striving to add by human 
art the coping-stone and final touch to her achievement. 

Sketches in Italy and Greece (London, 1874). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 

THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN. 

THE approach to Rouen is indeed magnificent. I 
speak of the immediate approach ; after you reach 
the top of a considerable rise, and are stopped by the barriers, 
you then look down a straight, broad, and strongly paved 
road, lined with a double row of trees on each side. As the 
foliage was not thickly set, we could discern, through the 
delicately clothed branches the tapering spire of the Cathedral 
and the more picturesque tower of the Abbaye St. Ouen 
— with hanging gardens and white houses to the left — 
covering a richly cultivated ridge of hills, which sink as it 
were into the Boulevards and which is called the Faubourg 
Cauchoise. To the right, through the trees, you see the 
river Seine (here of no despicable depth or breadth) covered 
with boats and vessels in motion : the voice of commerce 
and the stir of industry cheering and animating you as you 
approach the town. I was told that almost every vessel 
which I saw (some of them two hundred and even of three 
hundred tons burthen) v/as filled with brandy and wine. 
The lamps are suspended from the centre of long ropes, 
across the road ; and the whole scene is of a truly novel and 
imposing character. But how shall I convey to you an 
idea of what I experienced, as, turning to the left, and 



264 THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 

leaving the broader streets which flank the quay, I began to 
enter the penetralia of this truly antiquated town ? What 
narrow streets, what overhanging houses, what bizarre, 
capricious ornaments ! What a mixture of modern with 
ancient art ! What fragments, or rather what ruins of old 
delicately-built Gothic churches ! What signs of former 
and of modern devastation ! What fountains, gutters, groups 
of never-ceasing men, women and children, all occupied, 
and all apparently happy ! The Rue de la Grosse Horloge 
(so called from a huge, clumsy, antiquated clock which 
goes across it) struck me as being not among the least 
singular streets of Rouen, In five minutes I was within 
the court-yard of the Hotel Vatel, the favourite residence of 
the English. 

It was evening when I arrived in company with three 
Englishmen. We were soon saluted by the laquais de place 
— the leech-like hangers-on of every hotel — who begged 
to know if we would walk upon the Boulevards. We 
consented; turned to the right; and, gradually rising gained 
a considerable eminence. Again we turned to the right, 
walking upon a raised promenade ; while the blossoms of 
the pear and apple trees, within a hundred walled gardens, 
perfumed the air with a delicious fragrance. As we con- 
tinued our route along the Boulevard Beauvoisine^ we gained 
one of the most interesting and commanding views imagin- 
able of the city of Rouen — just at that moment lighted up 
by the golden rays of a glorious sun-set — which gave a 
breadth and a mellower tone to the shadows upon the 
Cathedral and the Abbey of Saint Ouen. . . . 

I have now made myself pretty well acquainted with the 




THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 265 

geography of Rouen. How shall I convey to you a sum- 
mary, and yet a satisfactory description of it ? It cannot 
be done. You love old churches, old books, and relics of 
ancient art. These be my themes, therefore : so fancy 
yourself either strolling leisurely with me, arm in arm, in 
the streets — or sitting at my elbow. First for the Cathedral : 
— for what traveller of taste does not doff his bonnet to 
the Mother Church of the town through which he happens 
to be travelling — or in which he takes up a temporary 
abode ? The west front, always the forte of the architect's 
skill, strikes you as you go down, or come up, the principal 
street — La Rue des Calmes, — which seems to bisect the 
town into two equal parts. A small open space (v/hich, 
however has been miserably encroached upon by petty 
shops) called the Flower-garden^ is before this western front ; 
so that it has some little breathing room in which to expand 
its beauties to the wondering eyes of the beholder. In my 
poor judgment, this western front has very few elevations 
comparable with it — including even those of Lincoln and 
York. The ornaments, especially upon three porches, 
between the two towers, are numerous, rich, and for the 
greater part entire : — in spite of the Calvinists, ^ the 
French Revolution, and time. Among the lower and 
smaller basso-relievos upon these porches is the subject 

1 The ravages committed by the Calvinists throughout nearly the 
whole of the towns of Normandy, and especially in the Cathedrals 
towards the year 1560, afford a melancholy proof of the effects of 
religious animosity. But the Calvinists were bitter and ferocious per- 
secutors. Pommeraye in his quarto volume Histoire de Tfiglise 
Cathedrale de Rouen (1686) has devoted nearly one hundred pages to 
an account of Calvinistic depredations. 



266 THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 

of the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod. She is 
manoeuvering on her hands, her feet being upwards. To 
the right, the decapitation of Saint John is taking place. 

The southern transept makes amends for the defects of 
the northern. The space before it is devoted to a sort of 
vegetable market : curious old houses encircle this space : 
and the ascent to the door, but more especially the curiously 
sculptured porch itself, with the open spaces in the upper 
part — light, fanciful and striking to a degree — produce an 
effect as pleasing as it is extraordinary. Add to this the 
ever-restless feet of devotees, going in and coming out, the 
worn pavement, and the frittered ornaments, in consequence 
— seem to convince you that the ardour and activity of 
devotion is almost equal to that of business. 

As you enter the Cathedral, at the centre door, by 
descending two steps, you are struck with the length and 
loftiness of the nave, and with the lightness of the gallery 
which runs along the upper part of it. Perhaps the nave 
is too narrow for its leno-th. The lantern of the central 
large tower is beautifully light and striking. It is supported 
by four massive clustered pillars, about forty feet in circum- 
ference ; ^ but on casting your eye downwards, you are 
shocked at the tasteless division of the choir from the nave 
by what is called a Grecian screen : and the interior of the 
transepts has undergone a like preposterous restoration. 
The rose windows of the transepts, and that at the west 
end of the nave, merit your attention and commendation. 
I could not avoid noticing to the right, upon entrance, per- 
haps the oldest side chapel in the Cathedral : of a date, little 

1 M. Licquet says each clustered pillar contains thirty-one columns. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 267 

less ancient than that of the noithern tower, and perhaps of 
the end of the Twelfth Century. It contains by much the 
finest specimens of stained glass — of the early part of the 
Sixteenth Century. There is also some beautiful stained 
glass on each side of the Chapel of the Virgin, behind the 
choir; but although very ancient, it is the less interesting, 
as not being composed of groups, or of historical subjects. 
Yet, in this, as in almost all the churches which I have 
seen, frightful devastations have been made among the 
stained-glass windows by the fury of the Revolutionists. . . . 
As you approach the Chapel of the Virgin, you pass by 
an ancient monument, to the left, of a recumbent Bishop, 
reposing behind a thin pillar, within a pretty ornamented 
Gothic arch. To the eye of a tasteful antiquary this can- 
not fail to have its due attraction. While, however, we are 
treading upon hallowed ground, rendered if possible more 
sacred by the ashes of the illustrious dead, let us move 
gently onwards towards the Chapel of the Virgin, behind 
the choir. See, what bold and brilliant monumental figures 
are yonder to the right of the altar ! How gracefully they 
kneel and how devoutly they pray ! They are the figures 
of the Cardinals D'Amboise — uncle and nephew : — the 
former minister of Louis XII. and (what does not neces- 
sarily follow, but what gives him as high a claim upon the 
gratitude of posterity) the restorer and beautifier of the 
glorious building in which you are contemplating his figure. 
This splendid monument is entirely of black and white 
marble, of the early part of the Sixteenth Century. The 
figures just mentioned are of white marble, kneeling upon 
cushions, beneath a rich canopy of Gothic fret-work. . . . 



268 THE CATHEDRAL OF ROUEN. 

The south-west tower remains, and the upper part of the 
central tower, with the whole of the lofty wooden spire : — 
the fruits of the liberality of the excellent men of whom 
such honourable mention has been made. Considering that 
this spire is very lofty, and composed of wood, it is surprising 
that it has not been destroyed by tempest or by lightning.^ 
The taste of it is rather capricious than beautiful. . . . 

Leaving the Cathedral, you pass a beautifully sculptured 
fountain (of the early time of Francis I.) which stands at 
the corner of a street, to the right ; and which, from its 
central situation, is visited the live-long day for the sake of 
its limpid waters. 

A Bibliographical, Ajitiquarian, and Picturesque Tour in France 
and Gerrnany (London, 1829). 

1 Within three years of writing it, the spire was consumed by- 
lightning. The newspapers of both France and England were full of 
this melancholy event; and in the year 1823 M. Hyacinthe Langlois 
of Rouen, published an account of it, together with some views of the 
progress of the burning. 



THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 

VICTOR HUGO. 

THERE is every style in the Castle of Heidelberg. It 
is one of those buildings where are accumulated and 
mingled beauties which elsewhere are scattered. It has 
some notched towers like Pierrefonds, some jewelled facades 
like Anet, some fosse-walls fallen into the moat in a single 
piece like Rheinfels, some large sorrowful fountains, moss- 
grown and ready to fall, like the Villa Pamfili, some regal 
chimney-pieces filled with briers and brambles, — the 
grandeur of Tancarville, the grace of Chambord, the terror 
of Chillon. . . . 

If you turn towards the Palace of Frederick IV. you 
have before you the two high, triangular pediments of this 
dark and bristling facade, the greatly projecting entablatures, 
where, between four rows of windows, are sculptured with 
the most spirited chisel, nine Palatines, two Kings, and five 
Emperors. 

On the right you have the beautiful Italian front of 
Otho-Heinrich with its divinities, its chimerae, and its 
nymphs who live and breathe velveted by the soft shadows, 
with its Roman Caesars, its Grecian demi-gods, its Hebraic 
heroes, and its porch which was sculptured by Ariosto. 
On the left you catch a glimpse of the Gothic front of 



270 THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 

Louis the Bearded, as savagely dug out and creviced as if 
gored by the horns of a gigantic bull. Behind you, under 
the arches of a porch, v/hich shelters a half-filled well, you 
see four columns of grey granite, presented by the Pope 
to the great Emperor of Aix-la-Chapelle, which in the 
Eighth Century went to Ravenna on the border of the 
Rhine, in the Fifteenth, from the borders of the Rhine to 
the borders of the Neckar, and which, after having wit- 
nessed the fall of Charlemagne's Palace at Ingelheim, have 
watched the crumbling of the Palatines' Castle at Heidel- 
berg, All the pavement of the court is covered with ruins 
of flights of steps, dried-up fountains, and broken basins. 
Everywhere the stones are cracked and nettles have broken 
through. 

The two facades of the Renaissance which give such an 
air of splendour to this court are of red sandstone and the 
statues which decorate them are of white sandstone, an 
admirable combination which proves that the great sculptors 
were also great colourists. Time has rusted the red sand- 
stone and given a golden tinge to the white,- Of these two 
facades one, that of Frederick IV., is very severe ; the other, 
that of Otho Heinrich, is entirely charming. The first is 
historical, the second is fabulous. Charlemagne dominates 
the one, Jupiter dominates the other. 

The more you regard these two Palaces in juxtaposition 
and the more you study their marvellous details, the more 
sadness gains upon you. Strange destiny for masterpieces 
of marble and stone ! An ignorant visitor mutilates them, 
an absurd cannon-ball annihilates them, and they were not 
mere artists but kings who made them. Nobody knows 



THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 27I 

to-day the names of those divine men who built and 
sculptured the walls of Heidelberg. There is renown there 
for ten great artists who hover nameless above this illus- 
trious ruin. An unknown Boccador planned this Palace 
of Frederick IV. ; an ignored Primaticcio composed the 
facade of Otho-Heinrich ; a Caesar Csesarino, lost in the 
shadows, designed the pure arches to the equilateral triangle 
of Louis V.'s mansion. Here are arabesques of Raphael, 
and here are fip;urines of Benvenuto. Darkness shrouds 
everything. Soon these marble poems will perish, — their 
poets have already died. 

For what did these wonderful men work ? Alas ! for 
the sighing wind, for the thrusting grass, for the ivy which 
has come to compare its foliage with theirs, for the tran- 
sient swallow, for the falling rain, and for the enshrouding 
night. 

One singular thing here is that the three or four bom- 
bardments to which these two facades have been subjected 
have not treated them in the same v/ay. Only the cornice 
and the architraves of Otho-Heinrich's Palace have been 
damaged. The immortal Olympians who dwell there 
have not suffered. Neither Hercules, nor Minerva, nor 
Hebe has been touched. The cannon-balls and shells 
crossed each other here without harming these invulnerable 
statues. On the other hand, the sixteen crowned knights, 
who have heads of lions on the gremuiUures of their 
armour and who have such valiant countenances, on the 
Palace of Frederick IV. have been treated by the bombs as 
if they had been living warriors. Nearly every one of 
them has been wounded. The face of the Emperor Otho 



2/2 THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 

has been covered with scars ; Otho, King of Hungary, 
has had his left leg fractured ; Otho-Heinrich, the Palatine, 
has lost his hand; a ball has disfigured Frederick the Pious; 
an explosion has cut Frederick II. in half and broken Jean 
Casimir's loins. In the assaults which were levelled at the 
highest row, Charlemagne has lost his globe and in the 
lower one Frederick IV. has lost his sceptre. 

However, nothing could be more superb than this legion 
of princes all mutilated and all standing. The anger of 
Leopold II. and of Louis XIV,, the thunder — the anger 
of the sky, and the anger of the French Revolution — the 
anger of the people, have vainly assailed them ; they all 
stand there defending their facade with their fists on their 
hips, with their legs outstretched, with firmly planted heel 
and defiant head. The Lion of Bavaria is proudly scowl- 
ing under their feet. On the second row beneath a green 
bough, which has pierced through architrave and which is 
gracefully playing with the stone feathers of his casque, 
Frederick the Victorious is half drawing his sword. The 
sculptor has put into his face an indescribable expression 
of Ajax challenging Jupiter and Nimrod shooting his arrow 
at Jehovah. These two Palaces of Otho-Heinrich and 
Frederick IV. must have offered a superb sight when seen 
in the light of that bombardment on the fatal night of 
May 21, 1693. • • • 

To-day the Tower of Frederick the Victorious is called 
the Blown-up Tower. 

Half of this colossal cylinder of masonry lies in the 
moat. Other cracked blocks detached from the top of 
the tower would have fallen long ago if the monster-trees 



THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 2/3 

had not seized them in their powerful claws and held them 
suspended above the abyss. 

A few steps from this terrible ruin chance has made a 
ruin of ravishing beauty ; this is the interior of Otho- 
Heinrich's Palace, of which until now I have only described 
the facade. There it stands open to everybody under the 
sunshine and the rain, the snow and the wind, without a 
ceiling, without a canopy, and without a roof, whose dis- 
mantled walls are pierced as if by hazard with twelve 
Renaissance doors, — twelve jewels of orf'evrerie^ twelve 
chefs d'ceuvre^ twelve idyls in stone — entwined as if they 
issued from the same roots, a wonderful and charming 
forest of wild flowers, worthy of the Palatines, consule 
dignce. I can only tell you that this mixture of art and 
reality is indescribable ; it is at once a contest and a har- 
mony. Nature, who has a rival in Beethoven, finds also a 
rival in Jean Goujon. The arabesques form tendrils and 
the tendrils form arabesques. One does not know which 
to admire most, the living or the sculptured leaf. 

This ruin appears to be filled with a divine order. 

It seems to me that this Palace, built by the fairies of 

the Renaissance, is now in its natural state. All these 

marvellous fantasies of free and savage art would be out 

of harmony in these halls when treaties of peace or war 

were signed here, when grave princes dreamed here, and 

when queens were married and German emperors created 

here. Could these Vertumnuses, Pomonas, or Ganymedes 

have understood anything about the ideas that came into 

the heads of Frederick IV. or Frederick V., by the grace 

of God Count Palatine of the Rhine, Vicar of the Holy 

i8 



2/4 THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 

Roman Empire, Elector and Duke of Upper and Lower 
Bavaria ? A grand seigneur slept in this chamber beside 
a king's daughter, under a ducal baldaquin ; now there is 
neither seigneur^ king's daughter, baldaquin, nor even ceil- 
ing to this chamber; it is now^ the home of the bind-weed, 
and the wild mint is its perfume. It is well. It is better 
thus. This adorable sculpture was made to be kissed by 
the flowers and looked upon by the stars. . . . 

The night had fallen, the clouds were spread over the sky, 
and the moon had mounted nearly to the zenith, while I 
was still sitting on the same stone, gazing into the darkness 
which had gathered around me and into the shadows which 
I had within me. Suddenly the town-clock far below me 
sounded the hour j it was midnight : I rose and descended. 
The road leading to Heidelberg passes the ruins. At the 
moment when I arrived before them, the moon, veiled by 
the diffused clouds and surrounded by an immense halo, 
threw a weird light upon this magnificent mass of mouldering 
ruins. . . . 

The ruin, always open, is deserted at this hour. The 
idea of entering it possessed me. The two stone giants, 
who guard the stone court, allowed me to pass. I crossed 
the dark porch, upon which the iron portcullis still hangs, 
and entered the court. The moon had almost disappeared 
beneath the clouds. There was only a pallid light in the 
sky. 

Nothing is grander than that which has fallen. This 
ruin, illuminated in such a way, at such an hour, was inde- 
scribably sad, gentle, and majestic. I fancied that in the 
scarcely perceptible rustling of the trees and foliage there 



THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 2/5 

was something grave and respectful. I heard no footstep, 
no voice, no breath. In the court there vi^as neither light, 
nor shadow ; a sort of dreamful twilight outlined everything 
and veiled everything. The confused gaps and rifts allowed 
the feeble rays of moonlight to penetrate the most remote 
corners ; and in the black depths of the inaccessible arches 
and corridors, I saw white figures, slowly gliding. 

It was the hour when the facades of old abandoned build- 
ings are no longer facades, but faces. I walked over the 
uneven pavement without daring to make any noise, and I 
experienced between the four walls of this enclosure that 
strange disquietude, that undefined sentiment which the 
ancients called " the horror of the sacred woods." There 
is a kind of insurmountable terror in the sinister mingled 
with the superb. 

However, I climbed up the green and damp steps of the old 
stairway without rails and entered the old roofless dv/elling 
of Otho-Heinrich. Perhaps you will laugh ; but I assure 
you that to walk at night through chambers which have been 
inhabited by people, v/hose doors are dismantled, whose 
apartments each have their peculiar signification, saying to 
yourself: "Here is the dining-room, here is the bed-room, 
here is the alcove, here is the mantel-piece, — and to feel 
the grass under your feet and to see the sky above your 
head, is terrifying. A room which has still the form of a 
room and whose ceiling has been lifted ofi\, as it were like 
the lid of a box, becomes a mournful and nameless thing. 
It is not a house, it is not a tomb. In a tomb you feel the 
soul of a man ; in this place you feel his shadow. 

As soon as I passed the Knights' Hall I stopped. Here 



2/6 THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 

there was a singular noise, the more distinct because a sepul- 
chral silence filled the rest of the ruin. It was a weak, pro- 
longed, strident rattle, mingled at moments with a little, dry 
and rapid hammering, which at times seemed to come from 
the depths of the darkness, from a far-away copse, or the 
edifice itself; at times, from beneath my feet between the 
rifts in the pavement. Whence came this noise ? Of 
what nocturnal creature was it the cry, or the knocking ? 
I am not acquainted with it, but as I listen to it, I cannot help 
thinking of that hideous, legendary spinner who weaves rope 
for the gibbet. 

However, nothing, nobody, not a living person is here. 
This hall, like the rest of the Palace, is deserted. I struck 
the pavement with my cane, the noise ceased, only to begin 
again a moment afterwards. I knocked again, it ceased, 
then it began again. Yet I saw nothing but a large frightened 
bat, which the blow of my cane on the stones had scared 
from one of the sculptured corbels of the wall, and which 
circled around my head in that funereal flight which seems 
to have been made for the interior of ruined towers. . . . 

At the moment I descended the flight of stairs the moon 
shone forth, large and brilliant, from a rift in the clouds ; 
the Palace of Frederick IV., with its double pediment, 
suddenly appeared, magnificent and clear as daylight with 
its sixteen pale and formidable giants; while, at my right, 
Otho's facade, a black silhouette against the luminous sky, 
allowed a few dazzling rays of moonlight to escape through 
its twenty-four windows. 

I said clear as daylight — I am wrong. The moon upon 
ruins is more than a light, — it is a harmony. It hides no 



THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 2// 

detail, it exaggerates no wounds, it throws a veil on broken 
objects and adds an indescribable, misty aureole of majesty 
to ancient buildings. It is better to see a palace, or an old 
cloister, at night than in the day. The hard brilliancy of 
the sunlight is severe upon the ruins and intensifies the 
sadness of the statues. . . . 

I went out of the Palace through the garden, and, descend- 
ing, I stopped once more for a moment on one of the lower 
terraces. Behind me the ruin, hiding the moon, made, half 
down the slope, a large mass of shadow, where in all directions 
were thrown out long, dark lines, and long, luminous lines, 
which striped the vague and misty background of the land- 
scape. Below me lay drowsy Heidelberg, stretched out at 
the bottom of the valley, the length of the mountain; all 
the lights were out ; all the doors were shut ; below Heidel- 
berg I heard the murmur of the Neckar, which seemed to 
be whispering to the hill and valley ; and the thoughts which 
filled me all the evening, — the nothingness of man in the 
Past, the infirmity of man in the Present, the grandeur of 
Nature, and the eternity of God, — came to me altogether, 
in a triple figure, whilst I descended with slow steps into 
the darkness between this river awake and living, this 
sleeping town, and this dead Palace. 

Le Rhin (Paris, 1842). 



THE DUCAL PALACE. 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

t B -^rfE charm which Venice still possesses, and which 
JL for the last fifty years has rendered it the favourite 
haunt of all the painters of picturesque subject, is owing 
to the eftect of the palaces belonging to the period we 
have now to examine, mingled with those of the 
Renaissance. 

The effect is produced in two different ways. The 
Renaissance palaces are not more picturesque in themselves 
than the club-houses of Pall Mall ; but they become 
delightful by the contrast of their severity and refinement 
with the rich and rude confusion of the sea life beneath 
them, and of their white and solid masonry with the 
green waves. Remove from beneath them the orange 
sails of the fishing boats, the black gliding of the gondolas, 
the cumbered decks and rough crews of the baro;es of 

to to 

traffic, and the fretfulness of the green water along their 
foundations, and the Renaissance palaces possess no more 
interest than those of London or Paris. But the Gothic 
palaces are picturesque in themselves, and wield over us 
an independent power. Sea and sky, and every other 
accessory might be taken away from them, and still they 
would be beautiful and strange. They are not less strik- 



THE DUCAL PALACE. 279 

ing in the loneliest streets of Padua and Vicenza (where 
many were built during the period of the Venetian au- 
thority in those cities) than in the most crowded thorough- 
fares of Venice itself; and if they could be transported 
into the midst of London, they would still not altogether 
lose their power over the feelings. 

The best proof of this is in the perpetual attractiveness 
of all pictures, however poor in skill, which have 'ken 
for their subject the principal of these Gothic buildings, 
the Ducal Palace. In spite of all architectural theories 
and teachings, the paintings of this building are always 
felt to be delightful ; we cannot be wearied by them, 
though often sorely tried ; but we are not put to the same 
trial in the case of the palaces of the Renaissance. They 
are never drawn singly, or as the principal subject, nor 
can they be. The building which faces the Ducal Palace 
on the opposite side of the Piazzetta is celebrated among 
architects, but it is not familiar to our eyes ; it is painted 
only incidentally, for the completion, not the subject, of 
a Venetian scene; and even the Renaissance arcades of 
St. Mark's Place, though frequently painted, are always 
treated as a mere avenue to its Byzantine church and 
colossal tower. And the Ducal Palace itself owes the 
peculiar charm which we have hitherto felt, not so much 
to its greater size as compared with other Gothic build- 
ings, or nobler design (for it never yet has been rightly 
drawn), as to its comparative isolation. The other Gothic 
structures are as much injured by the continual juxtaposition 
of the Renaissance palaces, as the latter are aided by it; 
they exhaust their own life by breathing it into the Renais- 



28o THE DUCAL PALACE. 

sance coldness : but the Ducal Palace stands comparatively 
alone, and fully expresses the Gothic power. . . . 

The Ducal Palace, which was the great work of Venice, 
was built successively in the three styles. There was a 
Byzantine Ducal Palace, a Gothic Ducal Palace, and a 
Renaissance Ducal Palace. The second superseded the first 
totally ; a few stones of it (if indeed so much) are all that 
is left. But the third superseded the second in part only, and 
the existing building is formed by the union of the two. 

We shall review the history of each in succession. 
I St. The Byzantine Palace. 

The year of the death of Charlemagne, 813, — the 
Venetians determined to make the island of Rialto the 
seat of the government and capital of their state. Their 
Doge, Angelo or Agnello Participazio, instantly took 
vigorous means for the enlargement of the small group 
of buildings which were to be the nucleus of the future 
Venice. He appointed persons to superintend the rising 
of the banks of sand, so as to form more secure founda- 
tions, and to build wooden bridges over the canals. For the 
offices of religion he built the Church of St. Mark; and on, 
or near, the spot where the Ducal Palace now stands, he 
built a palace for the administration of the government. 

The history of the Ducal Palace therefore begins with 
the birth of Venice, and to what remains of it, at this day, 
is entrusted the last representation of her power. . . . 

In the year 1 106, it was for the second time injured by 
fire, but repaired before 11 16, when it received another 
emperor Henry V. (of Germany), and was again honoured 
by imperial praise. Between 11 73 and the close of the 



THE DUCAL PALACE. 28 I 

century, it seems to have been again repaired and much 
enlarged by the Doge Sebastian Ziani. . . . 
2nd. The Gothic Palace. 

The reader, doubtless, recollects that the important 
change in the Venetian government which gave stability 
to the aristocratic power took place about the year 1297, 
under the Doge Pietro Gradenigo, a man thus charac- 
terized by Sansovino : — " il prompt and prudent man, 
of unconquerable determination and great eloquence, who 
laid, so to speak, the foundations of the eternity of this 
republic, by the admirable regulations which he introduced 
into the governm.ent." . . . 

We accordingly find it recorded by Sansovino, that " in 
1301 another saloon was begun on the Rio del Palazzo 
under the Doge Gradenigo^ and finished in 1309, in tuhich 
year the Grand Council first sat in it." In the first year, 
therefore, of the Fourteenth Century, the Gothic Ducal 
Palace of Venice was begun ; and as the Byzantine Palace, 
was, in its foundation, coeval with that of the state, so the 
Gothic Palace, v/as, in its foundation, coeval with that of 
the aristocratic power. Considered as the principal repre- 
sentation of the Venetian school of architecture, the Ducal 
Palace is the Parthenon of Venice, and Gradenigo its 
Pericles. . . . 

Its decorations and fittings, however, were long in com- 
pletion; the paintings on the roof being only executed 
in 1400. They represented the heavens covered with 
stars, this being, says Sansovino, the bearings of the Doge 
Steno. . . . The Grand Council sat in the finished chamber 
for the first time in 1423. In that year the Gothic Ducal 



282 THE DUCAL PALACE. 

Palace of Venice was completed. It had taken, to build 
it, the energies of the entire period which I have above 
described as the central one of her life. 
3rd. The Renaissance Palace. 

I must go back a step or two, in order to be certain 
that the reader understands clearly the state of the palace 
in 1423. The works of addition or renovation had now 
been proceeding, at intervals, during a space of a hundred 
and twenty-three years. Three generations at least had 
been accustomed to witness the gradual advancement of 
the form of the Ducal Palace into more stately symmetry, 
and to contrast the works of sculpture and painting with 
which it was decorated, — full of the life, knowledge, and 
hope of the Fourteenth Century, — with the rude Byzan- 
tine chiselling of the palace of the Doge Ziani. The 
magnificent fabric just completed, of which the new 
Council Chamber was the nucleus, was now habitually 
known in Venice as the " Palazzo Nuovo ; " and the old 
Byzantine edifice, now ruinous, and more manifest in its 
decay by its contrast with the goodly stones of the build- 
ing which had been raised at its side, was of course known 
as the " Palazzo Vecchio." That fabric, however, still 
occupied the principal position in Venice. The new 
Council Chamber had been erected by the side of it 
towards the Sea ; but there was not the wide quay in 
front, the Riva dei Schiavoni, which now renders the 
Sea Facade as important as that of the Piazzetta. There 
was only a narrow walk between the pillars and the water ; 
and the old palace of Ziani still faced the Piazzetta, and 
interrupted, by its decrepitude, the magnificence of the 



THE DUCAL PALACE. 283 

square where the nobles daily met. Every increase of 
the beauty of the new palace rendered the discrepancy 
between it and the companion building more painful ; and 
then began to arise in the minds of all men a vague idea 
of the necessity of destroying the old palace, and completing 
the front of the Piazzetta with the same splendour as the 
Sea Facade. . . . The Great Council Chamber was used 
for the first time on the day when Foscari entered the 
Senate as Doge, — the 3rd of April, 1423, . . . and the 
following year, on the 27th of March, the first hammer 
was lifted up against the old palace of Ziani. 

That hammer stroke was the first act of the period 
properly called the " Renaissance." It was the knell of 
the architecture of Venice, — and of Venice herself. . . . 

The whole work must have been completed towards 
the middle of the Sixteenth Century. . . . But the palace 
was not long permitted to remain in this finished form. 
Another terrific fire, commonly called the great fire, burst 
out in 1574, and destroyed the inner fittings and all the 
precious pictures of the Great Council Chamber, and of 
all the upper rooms on the Sea Facade, and most of those 
on the Rio Facade, leaving the building a mere shell, 
shaken and blasted by the flames. . . . The repairs neces- 
sarily undertaken at this time were however extensive, and 
interfere in many directions with the earlier work of the 
palace : still the only serious alteration in its form was 
the transposition of the prisons, formerly at the top of 
the palace, to the other side of the Rio del Palazzo ; and the 
building of the Bridge of Sighs, to connect them with the 
palace, by Antonio da Ponte. The completion of this work 
brought the whole edifice into its present form. . . . 



284 THE DUCAL PALACE. 

The traveller in Venice ought to ascend into the cor- 
ridor, and examine with great care the series of capitals 
which extend on the Piazzetta side from the Fig-tree 
angle to the pilaster which carries the party wall of the 
Sala del Gran Consiglio. As examples of graceful com- 
position in massy capitals meant for hard service and 
distant effect, these are among the finest things I know 
in Gothic Art ; and that above the fig-tree is remarkable 
for its sculptures of the four winds ; each on the side 
turned towards the wind represented. Levante, the east 
wind ; a figure with rays round its head, to show that it 
is always clear weather when that wind blows, raising the 
sun out of the sea : Hotro, the south wind ; crowned, 
holding the sun in its right hand : Ponente, the west 
wind; plunging the sun into the sea: and Tramontana, 
the north wind ; looking up at the north star. This 
capital should be carefully examined, if for no other reason 
than to attach greater distinctness of idea to the magnifi- 
cent verbiage of Milton : 

" Thwart of these, as fierce, 
Forth msh the Levant and the Ponent winds, 
Eurus, and Zephyr; with their lateral noise, 
Sirocco and Libecchio.'" 

I may also especially point out the bird feeding its three 
young ones on the seventh pillar on the Piazzetta side; 
but there is no end to the fantasy of these sculptures; and 
the traveller ought to observe them all carefully, until he 
comes to the great pilaster or complicated pier which sus- 
tains the party wall of the Sala del Consiglio ; that is to 
say, the forty-seventh capital of the whole series, counting 



THE DUCAL PALACE. 285 

from the pilaster of the Vine angle inclusive, as in the 
series of the lower arcade. The forty-eighth, forty-ninth, 
and fiftieth are bad work, but they are old ; the fifty-first 
is the first Renaissance capital of the lower arcade ; the 
first new lion's head with smooth ears, cut in the time 
of Foscari, is over the fiftieth capital ; and that capital, 
with its shaft, stands on the apex of the eighth arch from 
the Sea, on the Piazzetta side, of which one spandril is 
masonry of the Fourteenth and the other of the Fifteenth 
Century. . . . 

I can only say that, in the winter of 1851 the "Para- 
dise " of Tintoret was still comparatively uninjured, and 
that the Camera di Collegio, and its antechamber, and 
the Sala de' Pregadi were full of pictures by Veronese 
and Tintoret, that made their walls as precious as so 
many kingdoms, so precious indeed, and so full of majesty, 
that sometimes when walking at evening on the Lido, 
whence the great chain of the Alps, crested with silver 
clouds, might be seen rising above the front of the Ducal 
Palace, I used to feel as much awe in gazing on the 
building as on the hills, and could believe that God had 
done a greater work in breathing into the narrowness 
of dust the mighty spirits by whom its haughty walls had 
been raised, and its burning legends written, than in lift- 
ing the rocks of granite higher than the clouds of heaven, 
and veiling them with their various mantle of purple 
flower and shadowy pine. 

St07ies of Venice (London, 1851— '3). 



THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS. 

THE Mosque of Cordova, which was converted into 
a cathedral when the Moors were expelled but 
which has, notwithstanding, always remained a Mosque, 
was built on the ruins of the primitive cathedral not far 
from the Guadalquiver. Abd-er-Rahman began to build 
it in the year 785 or 786. "Let us build a Mosque," 
said he, " which will surpass that of Bagdad, that of 
Damascus, and that of Jerusalem, which shall be the 
greatest temple of Islam and become the Mecca of the 
Occident." The work was begun with ardour ; and 
Christian slaves were made to carry the stones of razed 
churches for its foundation. Abd-er-Rahman, himself, 
worked an hour every day ; in a few years the Mosque 
was built, the Caliphs who succeeded Abd-er-Rahman 
embellished it, and it was completed after a century of 
continuous labour. 

" Here we are," said one of my hosts, as we suddenly 
stopped before a vast edifice. I thought it was a fortress ; 
but it was the wall that surrounded the Mosque, in which 
formerly opened twenty large bronze doors surrounded by 
graceful arabesques and arched windows supported by light 
columns ; it is now covered with a triple coat of plaster. 



THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 287 

A trip around the boundary-wall is a nice little walk after 
dinner : you can judge then of the extent of the building. 

The principal door of this enclosure is at the north, on 
the spot where Abd-er-Rahman's minaret rose, from whose 
summit fluttered the Mohammedan standard ; I expected 
to see the interior of the Mosque at once, and I found 
myself in a garden full of orange-trees, cypresses, and 
palms, enclosed on three sides by a very light portico, and 
shut in on the fourth side by the facade of the Mosque. 
In the time of the Arabs there was a fountain in the centre 
for their ablutions, and the faithful gathered under the 
shade of these trees before entering the temple. I remained 
there for some moments looking around me and breathing 
the fresh and perfumed air with a very lively sensation ; 
my heart was beating rapidly at the thought of being so 
near the famous Mosque, and I felt myself impelled with 
a great curiosity and yet held back by an indescribable 
childish trembling. " Let us go in ! " said my companions. 
" Another moment ! " I replied. " Let me taste the 
pleasure of anticipation." Finally I stepped forward, and 
without glancing at the marvellous door, which my com- 
panions showed me, I entered. 

I do not know what I did, or said when I entered ; but 
certainly some strange exclamation must have escaped me, 
or I must have made some extraordinary gesture, for several 
people who were near me at that moment began to laugh 
and turned around to look about them, as if they wanted 
to discover what caused the excitement I manifested. 

Imagine a forest, and imagine that you are in the depths 
of this forest, and that you can see nothing but the trunks 



288 THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 

of the trees. Thus, no matter on what side of the Mosque 
you look, the eye sees nothing but columns. It is a limit- 
less forest of marble. Your glance wanders down the long 
rows of columns, one by one, v/hich every now and then 
are intersected by other interminable rows, until it reaches 
a twilight background where you seem to see the v/hite 
gleam of still other columns. Nineteen naves extend be- 
fore the visitor ; they are intersected by thirty-three other 
naves, and the whole building is supported by more than 
nine hundred columns of porphyry, jasper,, breccia^ and 
marbles of everv colour. The central nave, much larg-er 
than the others, leads to the Maksurah, the most sacred 
spot in the temple, where they read the Koran. A pale 
ray of light falls from the high v/indows here and shines 
upon a rovv' of columns ; beyond, there is a dark spot ; 
and, still further away, another ray of light illuminates 
another nave. It is impossible to describe the mystical 
feeling and admiration that this sight evokes in your soul. 
It is like the sudden revelation of an unknown religion, 
nature, and life, which carries your imagination to the 
delights of that Paradise, so full of love and voluptuous- 
ness, where the blessed ones seated under the shadow of 
thick-leaved plane-trees and thornless rose-bushes drink 
from crystal vases that wine, sparkling like jewels, which 
is mixed by immortal virgins, and sleep in the arms of 
houris with large black eyes. All these pictures of eternal 
pleasure, which the Koran promises to the faithful, rush 
upon the mind at this first sight of the Mosque in such a 
vital, intense, and bewildering manner that for an instant 
they give you a sweet intoxication which leaves your heart 



THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA, 289 

in a state of indescribable and gentle melancholy. Con- 
fusion in the mind and a rushing fire through the veins — 
that is your first sensation on entering the Cathedral of 
Cordova. 

We begin to wander from nave to nave, observing every- 
thing in detail. What variety there is in this edifice, which 
seemed all alike at the first glance ! The proportions of 
the columns, the designs of the capitals and the forms of 
the arches, change, so to speak, at every step you take. 
Most of the columns are ancient and were brought by the 
Arabs from Northern Spain, Gaul, and Roman Africa ; 
and some of them, it is said, belonged to a temple of Janus 
on whose ruins was built the church which the Arabs 
destroyed in order to erect this Mosque. On many of 
the capitals you can still distinguish the cross, which was 
carved upon them and which the Arabs erased with their 
chisels. In some of the columns pieces of curved iron are 
fixed, to which it is said the Arabs chained the Christians ; 
one, particularly, is exhibited, to which, according to 
popular tradition, a Christian was chained for many long 
years, and during this time he dug at the stone with his 
nails to make a cross, which the guides show you with 
deep veneration. 

We stood before the Maksura, the most complete and 
marvellous example of Arabian Art of the Tenth Century. 
There are three adjacent chapels in front of it, with 
vaulted ceilings of dentelated arches and walls covered with 
superb mosaics in the form of large bunches of flowers 
and inscriptions from the Koran. The principal Mihrab, 
the holy place where the spirit of God dwells, is at the 

19 



290 THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 

back of the central chapel. It is a niche with an octa- 
gon base and arched at the top by an enormous shell of 
marble. In the Mihrab, and fastened on a stool of aloe- 
wood, was kept the Koran, copied by the hand of the 
Caliph Othman, covered with gold and ornamented with 
pearls ; and the faithful made the tour of it seven times 
on their knees. On approaching the wall, I felt the pave- 
ment sink under my feet : the marble is hollowed out ! 

Coming out of the niche, I stopped for a long time to 
look at the ceiling and the walls of the principal church, 
the only portion of the Mosque which is almost intact. It 
is a dazzling array of crystal of a thousand colours, an 
interlacing of arabesques which confounds the imagination, 
a complication of bas-reliefs, of gold-work, of ornaments, 
and of details of design and hues of a delicacy, a grace, 
and a perfection to drive the most patient painter to 
despair. It is impossible to recall clearly that prodigious 
work ; you might return a hundred times to look at it, 
yet it would only be remembered as an aggregation of 
blue, red, green, golden, and luminous points, or a com- 
plicated embroidery whose patterns and colours are con- 
tinually changing. Such a miracle of art could only 
emanate from the fiery and indefatigable imagination of 
the Arabs. 

Again we wandered about the Mosque, examining here 
and there on the walls the arabesques of the ancient doors, 
of which you get glimpses from beneath the detestable 
Christian paint. My companions looked at me, laughed, 
and whispered to each other. 

" You have not seen it yet ? " asked one. 



THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 29I 

« What ? " 

They looked at each other again and smiled. 

" Do you think you have seen the entire Mosque ? " 
said the one who had first spoken. 

" I ? Yes," I replied, looking around me. 

" Well, you have not seen it all : what remains to be 
seen is a church — nothing more!" 

" A church ! " I cried, stupefied, " where is it ? " 

" Look ! " said the other companion, pointing it out, 
"it is in the very centre of the Mosque." 

" Good heavens ! And I had not noticed it at all ! " 

By that you may judge of the size of the Mosque. 
We went to see the church. It is very beautiful and 
very rich, with a magnificent high altar and a choir worthy 
of ranking with those of Burgos and Toledo j but, like all 
things which do not harmonize with their surroundings, 
it annoys you instead of exciting your admiration. Even 
Charles V., who gave the Chapter permission to build it 
here, repented when he saw the Mussulman temple. Next 
to the church there is a kind of Arabian chapel, admirably 
preserved and rich in mosaics not less beautiful and varied 
than those of the Maksura ; it is said that the doctors of 
this religion met there to read the Book of the Prophet. 

Such is the Mosque of to-day. 

What must it have been in the time of the Arabs ! It 
was not enclosed then by a surrounding wall, but it was 
open in such a way that the garden could be seen from 
every one of its parts, while from the garden you could 
see the entire length of the long naves, and the breeze 
carried the perfume from the orange-trees and flowers to 



292 THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA. 

the very arches of the Maksura. Of the columns, which 
to-day number less than a thousand, there were fourteen 
hundred ; the ceiling was of cedar and larch sculptured 
and incrusted with the most delicate work ; the walls were 
of marble ; the light of eight hundred lamps filled with 
perfumed oil made the crystals in the mosaics sparkle like 
diamonds and caused a marvellous play of colour and 
reflection on the floor, on the arches, and on the walls. 
" An ocean of splendours," a poet said, " filled this mys- 
terious enclosure, the balmy air was impregnated with 
aromas, and the thoughts of the faithful strayed until they 
became lost in the labyrinth of columns which glimmered 
like lances in the sunlight." 

La Spagna (Florence, 1873). 



THE CATHEDRAL OF THRONDTJEM. 

AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE. 

ON July 25 we left Kristiania for Throndtjem — the 
whole journey of three hundred and sixty miles be- 
ing very comfortable, and only costing thirty francs. The 
route has no great beauty, but endless pleasant variety — rail 
to Eidswold, with bilberries and strawberries in pretty birch- 
bark baskets for sale at all the railway stations ; a vibrating 
steamer for several hours on the long, dull Miosem lake ; 
railway again, with some of the carriages open at the sides ; 
then an obligatory night at Koppang, a large station, where 
accommodation is provided for every one, but where, if there 
are many passengers, several people, strangers to each other, 
are expected to share the same room. On the second day 
the scenery improves, the railv/ay sometimes running along 
and sometimes over the river Glommen on a wooden cause- 
way, till the gorge of mountains opens beyond Storen, into 
a rich country with turfy mounds constantly reminding us 
of the graves of the hero-gods of Upsala. Towards sunset, 
beyond the deep cleft in which the river Nid runs between 
lines of old painted wooden warehouses, rises the burial 
place of S. Olaf, the shrine of Scandinavian Christianity, 
the stumpy-towered Cathedral of Throndtjem. The most 
northern railway station, and the most northern cathedral in 
Europe. 



294 THE CATHEDRAL OF THRONDTJEM. 

Surely the cradle of Scandinavian Christianity is one of 
the most beautiful places in the world ! No one" had ever 
told us about it, and we w^ent there only because it is the 
old Throndtjem of sagas and ballads, and expecting a vv^onder- 
ful and beautiful cathedral. 

But the whole place is a dream of loveliness, so exquisite 
in the soft silvery morning light on the fyord and delicate 
mountain ranges, the rich nearer hills covered with bilberries 
and breaking into steep cliiFs — that one remains in a state of 
transport, which is at a climax while all is engraven upon an 
opal sunset sky, when an amethystine glow spreads over the 
mountains, and when ships and buildings meet their double 
in the still transparent water. Each wide street of curious 
low wooden houses displays a new vista of sea, of rocky 
promontories, of woods dipping into the water; and at the 
end of the principal street is the grey massive Cathedral 
where S. Olaf is buried, and where northern art and poetry 
have exhausted their loveliest and most pathetic fancies 
around the grave of the national hero. 

The " Cathedral Garden," for so the graveyard is called, 
is most touching. Acres upon acres of graves are all kept 
- — not by officials, but by the families they belong to — like 
gardens. The tombs are embowered in roses and honey- 
suckle, and each little green mound has its own vase for cut 
flowers daily replenished, and a seat for the survivors, which 
is daily occupied, so that the link between the dead and the 
living is never broken. 

Christianity was first established in Norway at the end of 
the Tenth Century by King Olaf Trygveson, son of Trygve 
and of the lady Astrida, whose romantic adventures, when 



THE CATHEDRAL OF THRONDTJEM. 295 

sold as a slave after her husband's death, are the subject 
of a thousand stories. When Olaf succeeded to the throne 
of Norway after the death of Hako, son of Sigurd, in 996, 
he proclaimed Christianity throughout his dominions, heard 
matins himself daily, and sent out missionaries through his 
dominions. But the duty of the so-called missionaries had 
little to do with teaching, they were only required to baptize. 
All who refused baptism were tortured and put to death. 
When, at one time, the estates of the province of Throndtjem 
tried to force Olaf back to the old religion, he outwardly 
assented, but made the condition that the offended pagan 
deities should in that case be appeased by human sacrifice — 
the sacrifice of the twelve nobles who were most urgent in 
compelling him; and upon this the ardour of the chieftains 
for paganism was cooled, and they allowed Olaf unhindered 
to demolish the great statue of Thor, covered with gold and 
jewels, in the centre of the province of Throndtjem, where 
he founded the city then called Nidaros, upon the river 
Nid. . . . 

Olaf Trygveson had a godson Olaf, son of Harald 
Grenske and Asta, who had the nominal title of king given 
to all sea captains of royal descent. From his twelfth year, 
Olaf Haraldsen was a pirate, and he headed the band of 
Danes who destroyed Canterbury and murdered S. Elphege 
— a strange feature in the life of one who has been himself 
regarded as a saint since his death. By one of the strange 
freaks of fortune common in those times, this Olaf Harald- 
sen gained a great victory over the chieftain Sweyn, who 
then ruled at Nidaros, and, chiefly through the influence of 
Sigurd Syr, a great northern landowner, who had become 



296 THE CATHEDRAL OF THRONDTJEM. 

the second husband of his mother, he became seated in 1016 
upon the throne of Norway. His first care was for the 
restoration of Christianity, which had fallen into decadence 
in the sixteen years which had elapsed since the defeat of 
Olaf Trygveson. The second Olaf imitated the violence 
and cruelty of his predecessor. Whenever the new religion 
was rejected, he beheaded or hung the delinquents. In 
his most merciful moments he mutilated and blinded them: 
" he did not spare one who refused to serve God.". . . 

However terrible the cruelties of Olaf Haraldsen were in 
his lifetime, they were soon dazzled out of sight amid the 
halo of miracles with which his memory was encircled by 
the Roman Catholic Church. ... 

It was when the devotion to S. Olaf was just beginning 
that Earl Godv/in and his sons were banished from Eng- 
land for a time. Two of these, Harold and Tosti, became 
vikings, and, in a great battle, they vowed that if they were 
victorious, they would give half the spoil to the shrine of S. 
Olaf 5 and a huge silver statue, which they actually gave, 
existed at Throndtjem till 1500, and if it existed still v/ould 
be one of the most important relics in archeology. The 
old Kings of Norway used to dig up the saint from time to 
time and cut his nails. When Harold Hardrada was going 
to England, he declared that he must see S. Olaf once again. 
" I must see my brother once more," he said, and he also cut 
the saint's nails. But he also thought that from that 
time it would be better that no one should see his brother 
any more — it would not be for the good of the Church — 
so he took the keys of the shrine and threw them into the 
fyord } at the same time, he said, it would be good for men 



THE CATHEDRAL OF THRONDTJEM. 297 

in after ages to know what a great king was like, so he 
caused S. OlaPs measure to be engraved upon the wall in 
the church at Throndtjem — his measure of seven feet — 
and there it is still. 

Around the shrine of Olaf in Throndtjem, in which, in 
spite of Harald Hardrada, his " incorrupt body " was seen 
more than five hundred years after his death, has arisen the 
most beautiful of northern cathedrals, originating in a small 
chapel built over his grave within ten years after his death. 
The exquisite colour of its green-grey stone adds greatly 
to the general effect of the interior, and to the delicate 
sculpture of its interlacing arches. From the ambulatory 
behind the choir opens a tiny chamber containing the Well 
of S. Olaf, of rugged yellow stone, with, the holes remaining 
in the pavement through which the dripping water ran away 
when the buckets were set down. Amongst the many 
famous bishops of Throndtjem, perhaps the most celebrated 
has been Anders Arrebo, " the father of Danish poetry " 
(1587— 1637), who wrote the " Hexameron," an extraordi- 
narily long poem on the Creation, which nobody reads now. 
The Cathedral is given up to Lutheran worship, but its 
ancient relics are kindly tended and cared for, and the 
building is being beautifully restored. Its beautiful Chapter 
House is lent for English service on Sundays. 

Sketches in Holland and Scandinavia (London, 1885). 



LEANING TOWER OF PISA. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

FROM the summit of a lofty hill beyond Carrara, 
the first view of the fertile plain in which the town 
of Pisa lies — v/ith Leghorn a purple spot in the flat dis- 
tance — is enchanting. Nor is it only distance that lends 
enchantment to the view ; for the fruitful country, and 
rich woods of olive-trees through which the road subse- 
quently passes, render it delightful. 

The moon was shining when we approached Pisa, and 
for a long time we could see, behind the wall, the Lean- 
ing Tower, all awry in the uncertain light ; the shadowy 
original of the old pictures in school-books, setting forth 
" The Wonders of the World." Like most things con- 
nected in their first associations with school-books and 
school-times, it was too small. I felt it keenly. It was 
nothing like so high above the wall as I had hoped. It was 
another of the many deceptions practised by Mr. Harris, 
Bookseller, at the corner of St. Paul's Church-yard, Lon- 
don. His Tower was a fiction, but this was reality — and, 
by comparison, a short reality. Still, it looked very well, 
and very strange, and was quite as much out of the 
perpendicular as Harris had represented it to be. The 
quiet air of Pisa, too ; the big guard-house at the gate, 




THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA. 



LEANING TOWER OF PISA. 299 

with only two little soldiers in it ; the streets, with scarcely 
any show of people in them ; and the Arno, flowing 
quaintly through the centre of the town ; were excel- 
lent. So, I bore no malice in my heart against Mr. 
Harris (remembering his good intentions), but forgave 
him before dinner, and went out, full of confidence, to 
see the Tower next morning. 

I might have known better; but, somehow, I had 
expected to see it casting its long shadow on a public 
street where people came and went all day. It was a 
surprise to me to find it in a grave, retired place, apart 
from the general resort, and carpeted with smooth green 
turf. But, the group of buildings clustered on and about 
this verdant carpet; comprising the Tower, the Baptistery, 
the Cathedral, and the Church of the Campo Santo ; is 
perhaps the most remarkable and beautiful in the whole 
world ; and, from being clustered there together away 
from the ordinary transactions and details of the town, 
they have a singularly venerable and impressive character. 
It is the architectural essence of a rich old city, with all 
its common life and common habitations pressed out, and 
filtered away. 

SiMOND compares the Tower to the usual pictorial 
representations in children's books of the Tower of Babel. 
It is a happy simile, and conveys a better idea of the 
building than chapters of laboured description. Nothing 
can exceed the grace and lightness of the structure ; noth- 
ing can be more remarkable than its general appearance. 
In the course of the ascent to the top (which is by an easy 
staircase), the inclination is not very apparent ; but, at the 



300 LEANING TOWER OF PISA. 

summit, it becom.es so, and gives one the sensation of 
being in a ship that has heeled over, through the action 
of an ebb tide. The effect upon the low side^ so to speak — 
looking over from the gallery, and seeing the shaft recede 
to its base — is very startling ; and I saw a nervous traveller 
hold on to the Towner involuntarily, after glancing down, 
as if he had some idea of propping it up. The view within, 
from the ground — looking up, as through a slanted tube 
— is also very curious. It certainly inclines as much as 
the most sanguine tourist could desire. The natural im- 
pulse of ninety-nine people out of a hundred, who were 
about to recline upon the grass below it to rest, and con- 
template the adjacent buildings, would probably be, not 
to take up their position under the leaning side ; it is so 
very much aslant. 

Pictures from Italy (London, 1845). 




a 
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THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 

W. H FREMANTLE. 

THE foundation of St. Martin's Church and the 
lower part of its walls, which are Roman, stood 
in 598 as they stand to-day; and they were the walls 
of the little church which had been given to the Christian 
Queen Bertha and her chaplain Bishop Luithart, by her 
pagan husband King Ethelbert. When Augustine passed 
towards the city, as described by the Venerable Bede, with 
his little procession headed by the monk carrying a board 
on which was a rough picture of Christ, and a chorister 
bearing a silver cross, his heart, no doubt, beat high with 
hope : but his hope would have grown into exultation 
could he have looked forward through the centuries, and 
beheld the magnificent Cathedral which was to spring up 
where his episcopal throne was fixed, and the energetic 
and varied Christian life which has issued from this first 
home of Anglo-Saxon Christianity. To us the scene is 
full of historical recollections. Between the place where 
we are standing and the Cathedral are the city walls, on 
the very site which they occupied in the days of Ethelbert, 
and the postern-gate through which Queen Bertha came 
every day to her prayers ; in the nearer distance, a little 
to the right of the Cathedral, are the remains of the great 



302 THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 

abbey which Augustine founded ; to our left is the Pil- 
grims' Way, by which, after Becket's canonization, those 
who landed at Dover made their way to the shrine of St. 
Thomas. 

The eye glances over the valley of the Stour, enclosed 
between the hill on which we are placed and that of St. 
Thomas, crowned by the fine buildings of the Clergy 
Orphan School ; and ranges from Harbledown (Chaucer's 
" little town under the Blean ycleped Bob-up-and-down ") 
on the left to the Jesuit College at Hale's Place farther to 
the right ; and thence down the valley to Fordwich, where 
formerly the waters of the Stour joined those of the 
Wantsome, the estuary separating Thanet from the main- 
land. This town at the Domesday epoch was a port with 
flourishing mills and fisheries. There the Caen stone was 
landed to build the Cathedral, and the tuns of wine from 
the monks' vineyards in France were lifted out of the 
ships by the mayor's crane. . . . 

But it is time that we go into the Cathedral precincts. 
Making use of a canon's key, we pass, by Queen Bertha's 
Postern, through the old city walls, along a piece of the an- 
cient Queningate lane — a reserved space between the walls 
of the city and the precincts, along which the citizens 
and troops could pass freely for purposes of defence: 
through the Bowling Green, where the tower of Prior 
Chillenden is seen to have been used as a pigeon-house, 
into the Cathedral Yard. In so doing we pass under a 
Norman archway of the date of Lanfranc and the Con- 
queror, which formerly stood in a wall separating the 
cemetery of the monks from that of the laity ; then along 



THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 303 

the south side of the Cathedral, passing Anselm's chapel, 
and the beautiful Norman tower attached to the south- 
eastern transept, with its elaborate tracery, which shows 
how delicate Norman work could be ; past the south 
porch, over which is a bas-relief of the altar where the 
sword of Becket's murderer was preserved ; and round, 
past the western door, into the cloister. 

The cloister occupies the same space as the Norman 
cloister built by Lanfranc, but of the Norman work only 
a doorway remains at the north-east corner ; there is some 
Early English arcading on the north side, but the present 
tracery and fan-worked roof belong to the end of the 
Fourteenth Centuiy, when Archbishops Sudbury, Arundell, 
and Courtenay, and Prior Chillenden (1390— 141 1) rebuilt 
the nave, the cloister and the chapter-house. The later 
work cuts across the older in the most unceremonious way, 
as is seen especially in the square doorway by v/hich we 
shall presently enter the " Martyrdom," which cuts into 
a far more beautiful portal of the decorated period. . . . 

If from the place at which we have in imagination 
been standing, at the north-west corner of the cloister, we 
look for a moment behind us, we see in the wall a blocked- 
up door, with a curious door at the side of it. The hole 
is said to have been made in order to pass bottles and 
other articles through from the cellarer's lodgings, which 
were on the other side of the wall. The doorway was the 
entrance from the Archbishop's Palace, which occupied 
the space a little further to the west ; and through it 
Becket passed out to his death, on the 29th of December, 
1170. . . . 



304 THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY, 

Henry had to do penance, and practically to concede 
the clerical immunities for which Becket had contended ; 
and Becket became a saint, " the holy, blissful martyr," 
himself the worker of a thousand miracles, and his shrine 
the goal of pilgrimages from all parts of England and of 
Europe. But, whatever we may think of this, his death 
was certainly the making of Canterbury and its Cathedral. 
Four years after Becket's death the choir was burned 
down (1174): but the treasure which was poured into 
the martyr's church enabled the monks to rebuild it in its 
present grander proportions ; and the city, which before 
was insignificant, became wealthy, populous, and re- 
nowned. 

The crypt was the first place of Becket's interment, and 
into the crypt we now pass. . . . The pavement in the 
centre of the Trinity Chapel (the part east of the screen) 
is very rough, being composed of the stones which formed 
the steps and pavement of the shrine ; but the marble 
pavement around it is still as it was when the shrine was 
standing, and a perceptible line marks the impress of the 
pilgrims' feet as they stood in a row to see the treasures. 
The shrine stood upon a platform approached by three 
marble steps, some stones of which, grooved by the pilgrims' 
knees, are still seen in the flooring. The platform was 
paved with mosaic and medallions, specimens of which 
may still be seen in the present pavement. Above this 
platform was the chased and gilded coffin of the saint, 
supported by three arches, which were hung with votive 
offerings of extreme richness, and between two of which 
sick persons were allowed to pass, so that by rubbing 



THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 305 

themselves against the stones they might draw forth virtue 
from the relics of the saint. The whole was covered 
with an oaken case richly decorated, which at a given signal 
from the monk whom Erasmus styles the mystagogus, 
or master of the mysteries, was drawn up and revealed the 
riches within to the wondering gaze of the pilgrims. In 
the painted windows of the chapel are the records of the 
miracles wrought by the intercession of St. Thomas : here, 
a dead man being carried out to burial is raised ; there, the 
parents of a boy who has been drowned in the attempt to 
catch frogs in the river are informed of their loss by his 
companions with eager gestures, and he too is restored to 
life ; and in each case offerings of gold and silver are 
poured upon the shrine ; the madman is seen coming back 
in his right mind ; " Amens accedit, sanus recedit : " and 
on several occasions the saint himself comes on the scene 
to heal the sick man on his bed, in one case flying forth 
from the shrine in his episcopal robes. The worship of 
Becket was the favourite cultus of the unreformed Church 
of England ; yet, strange to tell, from the day when Henry 
gave orders to demolish the shrine, and to expunge his 
name from all the service books and his memorials from 
all the churches, no one seems to have thought anything 
more about him. The blow which, to adapt the language 
of the Old Testament, " destroyed Becket out of Israel," 
though violent, was timely. 

The Black Prince, whose wife was the Fair Maid of 
Kent, was especially attached to Canterbury, and founded 
two chantries in the crypt or undercroft. These now form 
the entrance to the French Church, where the descendants 

20 



306 THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 

of the Walloon and Huguenot refugees still worship in the 
forms of their ancestors. The Prince had desired to be 
buried below ; but, partly from the special devotion which 
he had to the Trinity, partly that so great a man might 
have the place of honour, his tomb was erected at the 
side of Becket's shrine. He left to the Church of Canter- 
bury his velvet coat embroidered with lions and lilies, his 
ornamental shield, his lion-crested helmet, his sword and 
his gauntlets, all of which still hang above his bronze 
effigy, except the sword, which is said to have been 
removed by Cromwell, and of which only part of the 
scabbard remains. The effigy is believed to be a good 
likeness. It was placed upon the tomb where the body 
lies soon after his death, which occurred on the 8th of 
June, 1376, the feast of the Trinity, as recorded in the 
inscription in the French of his own Aquitaine. The 
Prince of V/ales's feathers and the lions and lilies, with 
the Prince's two mottoes, " Ich diene," (I serve), and 
" Houmout," (High Courage), form the ornaments of the 
tomb, which is also surrounded by some French verses 
chosen by the Prince himself, and describing the vanity 
of earthly glory. , . . 

And now we leave the Cathedral, and pass out of the 
precincts by the Christ Church Gate, still beautiful even 
in its defacement, and through the narrow Mercery Lane, 
where stood in old times the booths for the sellers of relics 
and of the little leaden bottles supposed to contain in their 
water somic drops of St. Thomas's blood ; where also stood 
the Chequers of the Hope, at which Chaucer's pilgrims 
regaled themselves, and of which one fragment, marked by 



THE CATHEDRAL OF CANTERBURY. 307 

the Black Prince's emblem of the lion with protruding 
tongue, may still be seen at the corner of the lane ; down 
the High Street, where we pass the old East Bridge 
Hospital, founded by Lanfranc, endowed by Becket, and 
saved from confiscation by Cranmer, with its low Norman 
doorway and the crvpt under its hall ; and leave the citv 
by the West Gate, which was erected by Archbishop 
Sudbury on the line where the eastern wall ran along the 
Stour ; and past the Falstaff Inn, where the sign of the 
roystering old knight hangs out on some beautiful ancient 
ironwork, and welcom.es the cyclists who specially aiFect 
his inn ; and so on to the South Eastern Railway Station. 

We entered Canterbury on foot with Augustine, we 
leave it by a modern railway. 

Farrar, Our English Minsters (Londorij 1S93). 



THE ALHAMBRA. 

THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

AVING passed through the gate, you enter a large 
square called Plaza de las Algives in the centre 
of which you find a well whose curb is surrounded by 
a kind of wooden shed covered with spartium matting 
and where, for a cuarto^ you can have a glass of water, 
as clear as a diamond, as cold as ice, and of the most 
delicious flavour. The towers of Quebrada, the Homenaga, 
the Armeria, and of the Vela, whose bell announces the 
hours when the water is distributed, and stone-parapets, 
on which you can lean to admire the marvellous view 
v/hich unfolds before you, surround one side of the square ; 
the other is occupied by the Palace of Charles V., an 
immense building of the Renaissance, which you would 
admire anywhere else, but which you curse here when 
you remember that it covers a space once occupied by a 
portion of the Alhambra which was pulled down to make 
room for this heavy mass. This Alcazar was, however, 
designed by Alonzo Berruguete ; the trophies, the bas- 
reliefs, and the medallions of its facade have been accu- 
mulated by means of a proud, bold, and patient chisel; 
the circular court v/ith its marble columns, where, in all 



THE ALHAMBRA. 309 

probability, the bull-fights took place, is certainly a mag- 
nificent piece of architecture, but mn erat hie locus. 

You enter the Alhambra through a corridor situated in 
an angle of the Palace of Charles V., and, after several 
windings, you arrive in a large court, designated indif- 
ferently under the names of Patio de los Arraynes (Court of 
Myrtles), of the Alherca (of the Reservoir), or of the 
Mezouar (an Arabian v/ord signifying bath for v^^omen). 

When you issue from these dark passages into this 
large space flooded with light, the effect is similar to that 
produced by a diorama. You can almost fancy that an 
enchanter's wand has transported you to the Orient of four 
or five centuries ago. Time, which changes everything in 
its flight, has altered nothing here, where the apparition 
of the Sultana Chalne des coeurs and of the Moor Tarfe in 
his white cloak would not cause the least surprise. . . . 

The antechamber of the Hall of the Ambassadors is 
worthy of the purpose for which it was intended: the 
boldness of its arches, the variety and interlacing of its 
arabesques, the mosaics of its walls, and the work on its 
stuccoed ceiling, crowded like the stalactite roof of a grotto 
and painted with azure, green, and red, traces of which 
colours are still visible, produce an effect both charming 
and bizarre. 

On each side of the door which leads to the Hall of 
the Ambassadors, in the jamb of the arch itself and where 
the facing of glazed tiles, whose triangles of glaring colours 
adorn the lower portion of the walls, are hollowed out, 
like little chapels, two niches of white marble sculptured 
with an extreme delicacy. It was here that the ancient 



310 THE ALHAMBRA. 

Moors left their Turkish slippers before entering, as a 
mark of deference, just as we remove our hats in places 
that demand this respect. 

The Hall of the Ambassadors, one of the largest in 
the Alhambra, fills the whole interior of the tower of 
Comares. The ceiling, composed of cedar, shows those 
mathematical combinations so common to the Arabian 
architect : all the bits are arranged in such a way that all 
their converging or diverging angles form an infinite 
variety of designs ; the walls disappear under a network 
of ornaments, so packed together and so inextricably 
interwoven that I can think of no better comparison than 
pieces of lace placed one above the other. Gothic archi- 
tecture, with its stone lace-work and its perforated roses, 
cannot compare with this. Fish-slices and the paper 
embroideiy cut out with a punch, which the confectioners 
use to decorate their sweets, can alone give you any idea 
of it. One of the characteristics of the Moorish style is 
that it offers very few projections and profiles. All the 
ornamentation is developed on flat surfaces and is hardly 
ever more than four or five inches in relief; it is really 
like a kind of tapestry worked on the wall itself. One 
feature in particular distinguishes it — the employment of 
writing as a motive of decoration ; it is true that Arabian 
letters, with their mysteriously winding forms, lend them- 
selves remarkably to this use. The inscriptions, which 
are almost always suras of the Koran, or eulogies to 
various princes who have built and decorated these halls, 
unfold upon the friezes, on the jambs of the doors, and 
round the arches of the windows interspersed with flowers. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 31I 

boughs, network, and all the wealth of Arabian caligraphy. 
Those in the Halls of the Ambassadors signify " Glory to 
God, power and wealth to believers," or consist of praises 
to Abu Nazar, who, " if he had been taken into Heaven 
while living, would have diminished the brightness of the 
stars and planets," a hyperbolical assertion which seems 
to us a little too Oriental. 

Other bands are filled with eulogies to Abu Abd Allah, 
another Sultan who ordered work upon this part of the 
Palace. The windows are bedizened with verses in honour 
of the limpid waters of the reservoir, of the freshness of the 
shrubbery, and the perfume of the flowers which ornament 
the Court of the Mezouar^ which in fact is seen, from the 
Hall of the Ambassadors through the doors and little col- 
umns of the gallery. 

The loop-holes of the interior balcony, pierced at a great 
height from the ground, and the ceiling of wood-work, 
devoid of ornaments except the zig-zags and the interlac- 
ings formed by the joining of the pieces, give the Hall of 
the Ambassadors a more severe aspect than any other halls 
in the Palace, and more in harmony with its purpose. From 
the back window you can enjoy a marvellous view over the 
ravine of the Darro. . . . 

From the Hall of the Ambassadors you go down a cor- 
ridor of relatively modern construction to the tocador^ or 
dressing-room of the queen. This is a small pavilion on 
the top of a tower used by the sultanas as an oratory, and 
from which you can enjoy a wonderful panorama. You 
notice at the entrance a slab of white marble perforated 
with little holes in order to let the smoke of the perfumes 



312 THE ALHAMBRA. 

burned beneath the floor to pass through. You can still 
see on the walls the fantastic frescoes of Bartholomew de 
Ragis, Alonzo Perez, and Juan de la Fuente. Upon the 
frieze the ciphers of Isabella and Philip V. are intertwined 
with groups of Cupids. It is difficult to imagine anything 
more coquettish and charming than this room, with its 
small Moorish columns and its surbased arches, over-hang- 
ing an abyss of azure, the bottom of which is studded with 
the roofs of Grenada and into which the breeze brings the 
perfumes from the Generalife, — that enormous cluster of 
oleanders blossoming in the foreground of the nearest hill, — 
and the plaintive cry of the peacocks walking upon the dis- 
mantled walls. How many hours have I passed there in 
that serene melancholy, so different from the melancholy 
of the North, with one leg hanging over the precipice and 
charging my eyes to photograph every form and every out- 
line of this beautiful picture unfolded before them, and 
which, in all probability, they will never behold again ! 
No description in words, or colours, can give the slightest 
hint of this brilliancy, this light, and these vivid tints. The 
most ordinary tones acquire the worth of jewels and every- 
thing else is on a corresponding scale. Towards the close 
of day, when the sun's rays are oblique, the most incon- 
ceivable effects are produced : the mountains sparkle like 
heaps of rubies, topazes, and carbuncles ; a golden dust 
bathes the ravines ; and if, as is frequent in the summer, 
the labourers are burning stubble in the field, the wreaths 
of smoke, which rise slowly towards the sky, borrow the 
most magical reflections from the fires of the setting 
sun. . . . 



THE ALHAMBRA. 313 

The Court of Lions is 120 feet long and 73 feet wide, 
while the surrounding galleries do not exceed 20 feet in 
height. These are formed by 128 columns of white marble, 
arranged in a symmetrical disorder of groups of fours and 
groups of threes ; these columns, whose highly-worked 
capitals retain traces of gold and colour, support arches 
of extreme elegance and of a very unique form. . . . 

To the left and midway up the long side of the gallery, 
you come to the Hall of the Two Sisters, the pendant to the 
Hall of the Abencerrages. The name of las Dos Hermanas 
is given to it on account of two immense flag-stones of 
white Macael marble of equal size and- exactly alike which 
you notice at once in the pavement. The vaulted roof, or 
cupola, which the Spanish very expressively call media 
naranja (half an orange), is a miracle of work and patience. 
It is something like a honey-comb, or the stalactites of a 
grotto, or the soapy grape-bubbles which children blow 
through a pipe. These myriads of little vaults, or domes, 
three or four feet high, which grow out of one another, 
intersecting and constantly breaking their corners, seem 
rather the product of fortuitous crystallization than the v/ork 
of human hands ; the blue, the red, and the green still shine 
in the hollows of the mouldings as brilliantly as if they had 
just been laid on. The walls, like those in the Hall of the 
Ambassadors, are covered from the frieze to the height of a 
man with the most delicate embroideries in stucco and of 
an incredible intricacy. The lower part of the walls is 
faced with square blocks of glazed clay, whose black, green, 
and yellow angles form a mosaic upon the white back- 
ground. The centre of the room, according to the inva- 



314 THE ALHAMBRA. 

liable custom of the Arabs, whose habitations seem to be 
nothing but great ornamental fountains, Is occupied by a 
basin and a jet of water. There are four fountains under 
the Gate of Justice, as many under the entrance-gate, and 
another in the Hall of the Abencerrages, without counting 
the Taza de los Leones^ which, not content with vomiting 
water through the mouths of its twelve monsters, tosses a 
jet towards the sky through the mushroom-cap which sur- 
mounts it. All this water flows through small trenches in 
the floors of the hall and pavements of the court to the foot 
of the Fountain of Lions, where it is swallowed up in a 
subterranean conduit. Certainly this is a species of dwell- 
ing which would never be incommoded with dust, but you 
ask how could these halls have been tenanted during the 
winter. Doubtless the large cedar doors were then shut 
and the marble floors were covered with thick carpets, 
while the inhabitants lio-hted fires of fruit-stones and odo- 
riferous woods in the braseros^ and waited for the return of 
the fine season, which soon comes in Grenada. 

We will not describe the Hall of the Abencerrages, 
which is precisely like that of the Two Sisters and contains 
nothing in particular except its antique door of wood, 
arranged in lozenges, which dates from the time of the 
Moors. In the Alcazar of Seville you can find another 
one of exactly the same style. 

The Ta'za de los Leones enjoys a vi^onderful reputation in 
Arabian poetry : no eulogy is considered too extravagant 
for these superb animals. I must confess, however, that it 
would be hard to find anything which less resembles lions 
than these productions of Arabian fantasy ; the paws are 



THE ALHAMBRA. 315 

simple stakes like those shapeless pieces of wood which one 
thrusts into the bellies of pasteboard dogs to make them 
keep their equilibrium ; their muzzles streaked with trans- 
verse lines, very likely intended for whiskers, are exactly 
like the snout of a hippopotamus, and the eyes are so primi- 
tive in design that they recall the crude attempts of children. 
However, if you consider these twelve monsters as chimeras 
and not lions, and as a fine caprice in ornamentation, pro- 
ducing in combination with the basin they support a pictur- 
esque and elegant effect, you will then understand their 
reputation and the praises contained in this Arabian inscrip- 
tion of twenty-four verses and twenty-four syllables engraved 
on the sides of the lower basin into which the waters fall 
from the upper basin. I ask the reader's pardon for the 
rather barbarous fidelity of the translation : 

" O thou, who lookest upon the lions fixed in their place ! 
remark that they only lack life to be perfect. And you to whom 
will fall the inheritance of this Alcazar and Kingdom, take them 
from the noble hands of those who have governed them without 
displeasure and resistance. May God preserve you for the work, 
which you will accomplish, and protect you forever from the 
vengeance of your enemy ! Honour and glory be thine, O 
Mohammed ! our King, endowed with the high virtues, with 
whose aid thou hast conquered everything. May God never per- 
mit this beautiful garden, the image of thy virtues, to be surpassed 
by any rival. The material which covers the substance of this 
basin is like mother-of-pearl beneath the shimmering waters ; this 
sheet of water is Hke melted silver, for the limpidity of the water 
and the whiteness of the stone are unequalled ; it might be called 
a drop of transparent essence upon a face of alabaster. It would 
be difficult to follow its course. Look at the water and look 



3l6 THE ALHAMBRA. 

at the basin, and you will not be able to tell if it is the water 
that is motionless, or the marble which ripples. Like the prisoner 
of love whose face is full of trouble and fear when under the gaze 
of the envious, so the jealous water is indignant at the marble and 
the marble is envious of the water. To this inexhaustible stream 
we may compare the hand of our King which is as liberal and 
generous as the lion is strong and valiant." 

Into the basin of the Fountain of Lions fell the heads of 
the thirty-six Abencerrages, drawn there by the stratagem 
of the Zegris. The other Abencerrages would have shared 
the same fate if it had not been for the devotion of a little 
page who, at the risk of his own life, ran to warn the sur- 
vivors from entering the fatal court. Your attention will 
be attracted by some large red spots at the bottom of the 
basin — an indelible accusation left by the victims against 
the cruelty of their murderers. Unfortunately, the learned 
declare that neither the Abencerrages nor the Zegris 
existed. Regarding this fact, I am entirely guided by 
romances, popular traditions, and Chateaubriand's novel, 
and I solemnly believe that these crimson stains are blood 
and not rust. 

We established our headquarters in the Court of the 
Lions ; our furniture consisted of two mattresses which were 
rolled up in a corner during the day, a copper lamp, an 
earthenware jar, and a few bottles of sherry which we placed 
in the fountain to cool. Sometimes we slept in the Hall of 
the Two Sisters, and sometimes in that of the Abencerrages, 
and It was not without some slight fear that I, stretched 
out upon my cloak, looked at the white rays of the moon 
which fell through the openings of the roof into the water 



THE ALHAMBRA. 317 

of the basin quite astonished to mingle with the yellow, 
trembling flame of a lamp. 

The popular traditions collected by Washington Irving 
in his Tales of the Alhamhra came into my memory ; the 
story of the Headless Horse and of the Hairy Phantom 
solemnly related by Father Echeverria seemed very probable 
to me, especially when the light was out. The truth of 
legends always appears much greater at night when these 
dark places are filled with weird reflections which give a 
fantastic appearance to all objects of a vague outline : 
Doubt is the son of day, Faith is the daughter of the night, 
and it astonishes me to think that St. Thomas believed in 
Christ after having thrust his finger into his wounds. I am 
not sure that I did not see the Abencerrages walking through 
the moonlit galleries carrying their heads under their arms : 
anyhow the shadows of the columns always assumed forms 
that were diabolically suspicious, and the breeze as it passed 
through the arches made me wonder if it was not a human 
breath. 

Voyage en Espagne (Paris, new ed., 1865). 



^. 



LE Je bS 



